


Sons of the Spider

by SquirrellyThief



Series: Moonlight Over the Forest [3]
Category: Forgotten Realms, The Legend of Drizzt - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Last Threshold Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 145,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquirrellyThief/pseuds/SquirrellyThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was the first-born son. I was offered power beyond my need or comprehension and I rejected it. Only now do I realize how wrong I was to do so.</p><p>I am the third-born son. I have been forced to accept power beyond my need or comprehension and I suffer for it. I eagerly await the arrow that is aimed at my heat to rip this power from me. I only hope that it does not come too late to save me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Change in the Air

When he closed his eyes, Tiago felt as though he were back in his private chamber in Menzoberranzan. It was warm. The space and luxury did not make the room feel like cell, but more of an inn room, or guest bedroom in someone else’s home. The bed was soft, plush, and he sank into it the longer he rested, staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks. He could hear muted conversations rumbling through the vents interrupted regularly by footsteps or the sound of one of those large, sliding doors rolling into place. The smell of the room changed with the time of day; dust in the morning, the smell of hot food and smoke drifting through the vents during the day, incense at night. Or, at least, Tiago believed those to be the times.

Occasionally, when Tiago took to pacing about his room, intermittently practicing various combat forms and tactics, he would hear footfalls and talking outside of his room. His superior hearing only caught bits and pieces of the conversations and never did they have anything to do with him. After a time Tiago began to wonder if anyone remembered he was in the room.

He tested the locks regularly.

Dahlia was his best chance, perhaps his only chance to reclaim his lost respect. Her new found resources and their history should prove to be enough to do something worth his matron’s attention. There was always a chance that he would not be able to convince her to help him, and he’d just be stuck in the cell forever.

As much as he didn’t like to admit it, Tiago would take being stuck in a cell over the wrath of Quenthel any day.

He wondered what she’d done with his equipment.

Time dragged on and Tiago grew more anxious; more uncomfortable with the space that had been given to him. He felt the walls closing in, despite being able to take dozen paces before having to turn as he paced. The air went stale even though the vents provided fresh air. He began checking the door more and more frequently, even making attempts to find a secret door or some kind of escape.

He grew restless.

Entire days passed.

Then, he grew paranoid.

She was watching him, he knew, and it was maddening. That she would just sit and watch him pace and practice and think and not consult him on a plan. Maybe she fenced his gear, took his coin, and recruited a dark elf to send word back to Gauntlgrym on his whereabouts, and then ultimately back to his matron. Quenthel would have his head on a pike for sure, not just for fleeing but for asking a faerie for aid.

Tiago tried the door again, still locked. He struggled with it, pressing his shoulder to the wood, testing its strength. With a deep breath he took a step back and readied a charge.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a soft, female voice called from the other side. The girl that had shown him in.

“What? Girl-“ Tiago sputtered, “How long have you been-“

“Long enough to know that you talk to yourself way more than is healthy,” the girl’s voice laughed. “The guildmaster will be ready to see you shortly. Please, make yourself presentable. I’ll be back shortly.”

Deflated, Tiago stepped back from the door. He ran a hand through his hair and settled down on the edge of the plush bed. A long sigh escaped him and he buried his head in his hands, embarrassed with himself for his reaction.

A soft knock came to the door and it swung open, the girl standing impatiently in the doorway. “Come, your audience has been requested.”

With another deep breath, Tiago stood, straightened himself out, and fell into step behind the girl.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The rumbling started up again after a few days, sending all the dark elves in Gauntlgrym into the outer tunnels in alarm. Another sacrifice of an unruly drider seemed to be enough to soothe the savage beast, but Saribel knew that they couldn’t throw driders into the fire forever; something more permanent needed to be done.

First, she called on Kimmuriel Oblodra and demanded his advice.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “I’m a psionicist, not a mage. Give me some time to study it uninterrupted and I will get back to you.” With a curt nod he turned on his heel and left her.

Frustrated, she called on the spellspinners next. They’d studied under Ravel for years surely they would know something about the primordial. Sadly, that was not the case and the mages only stared at the creature for long stretches of time before looking back at the priestess anxiously until they were dismissed.

Berellip was the next one called.

“Trouble?” the other priestess laughed as she entered, “You never did do well in positions of power.”

If looks could kill, Berellip Xorlarrin would not have drawn another breath beyond that point. “Don’t even begin that with me,” Saribel warned.

Berellip laughed and took seat beside her sister in her private chamber. “The primordial grows restless,” she noticed, “It seems to like the driders.”

Saribel shot her sister another look, “Berellip, silence. I need to how many spiders we still have. There are some people I need to keep tabs on.”

“There are enough,” the other priestess replied, “and, if not, I can always make more. Who do they need to watch?”

“I want one,” Saribel ordered, rubbing her temples, “in Oblodra’s room. Make sure he’s actually studying what he says he is. And I want several topside in Neverwinter; we need to hunt down Do’Urden’s allies and find out where those mages took him so we can ship him off to Menzoberranzan before Quenthel gets impatient.”

Berellip nodded, “I will see it done. Would you like me to send word to the city about the status of the primordial as well?”

“No,” Saribel shook her head stubbornly. “We will fix this and Menzoberranzan will have a new sister city just as Zeerith commanded; especially now that we don’t have Ravel and Tiago to muck things up and make problems worse.”

The other priestess only nodded again. She’d been watching Saribel be bombarded with concerns and anxiety centered on the primordial, the earthquakes, and the collapsing tunnels on the outskirts of the complex. She’d also seen the number of mercenaries in the complex begin dwindling into nothingness.

It was starting to wear the other priestess down, even though she’d only been truly in power for a few days, she’d been substituting for the absentee Ravel for weeks and leadership was not her strong point. Saribel was always the silent power, a guiding hand in a puppet, being the target of so much concern was fraying her at the edges the same way it had their brother and might even destroy her the same way it had destroyed the spellspinner.

One less sibling to stand between her and Matronhood when the city finally gained houses of its own.

With a curt nod, Berellip took the order, rose from her seat, and left the room; hoping Saribel fell sooner rather than later.

-0-0-0-0-0-

She wasn’t much: thin and short for her age, too pretty be seen as anything other than a centerpiece at a party, better seen and not heard, but she’d been trusted with an important task and she wasn’t about to let anyone down.

The girl snapped her slender fingers sharply at a man that wandered too far from the line she was leading. He scurried back to his place, head down; his eyes blankly staring ahead into the darkness.

It was bad enough she was already days late, but collapsed tunnels and shifted warrens of creatures native to this part of the Underdark kept forcing her to reroute her course. She kept trying though, occasionally pulling out a small map of the Northdark and a compass to trace out a path in the tunnels.

The glassy eyed men were starting to grow impatient for lack of things to do and absently she wondered how they ever served their masters efficiently and what purpose they would serve at their destination. She rolled her eyes and kept leading them onward, paying little heed to the occasional pained whimper or startled sound of the brain-dead. But when the soft sounds became a worried huddle despite her orders to stay in line, she knew something was wrong. When she turned, she finally saw what had gotten the men so spooked, and it spooked her as well.

Wide-eyed the first of the creatures to round the corner spotted her among the huddle. A wicked grin pulled the monster’s jaundiced skin to an impossible tightness. It drew its sword, pointing the glowing sliver at her and calling for its companion in its garbled, growling language. Two more rushed to join it before it charged.

Without missing a beat, she herded the men that she could and sent them along the tunnel. The ones that would not cooperate were cut down and left as bait in her wake.

This would add more time onto her trek, she knew. Her masters would not be pleased.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“You wanted to see me?” Tiago held his arms out at his side as Glenda shut the door behind him.

“Put your gear back on,” Dahlia ordered. “I’ve decided that I’m going to aid you.”

The exile nearly fell over. A few days in a cell and suddenly the woman was willing to help him. She didn’t even know what he wanted, much less what it would entail in the way of sacrifices on her part, and yet she wanted to aid him. “Honestly?” he asked in spite of himself.

Dahlia smirked at him and gave him a polite little nod. “Well, yes and no,” she explained. “I set aside a small amount of resources for your cause. Depending on the plan you present to me I will give you an appropriate portion of those resources based on your perceived need.” She crossed her legs as she sat on the edge of her desk. “Now, plead your case,” she commanded.

Tiago narrowed his eyes and silently moved to the small stack of items beside the elf. Methodically, he took inventory of the items and when he was satisfied with what Dahlia had decided to return, he dressed.

“I’m waiting,” Dahlia pressed as he adjusted his swordbelt and slung his shield across his back.

“I still want to get Do’Urden,” Tiago confessed, “But I know that will be difficult given the power of his allies.” He took a few steps back, widening the distance between himself and the woman, “So, I propose we start by taking out the lesser members of his group. The ones Draygo wanted. Magic is in flux and the priest and the warlock will no doubt have their powers stunted. They should prove easy targets.”

Dahlia looked at the drow thoughtfully, “Yes, but only if you can get them on their own. Together they are a formidable force, even without magic.” She grinned wickedly, “I used to be one of them, remember?”

“I know,” Tiago laughed, “That’s why I’ve come to you. The group seems to be splitting. Do’Urden and his lover on one end, the remaining members on the other. Without the ranger to hold them together, the group is bound to fall apart. And you know how he goes about love from personal experience, if I recall correctly.”

Dahlia ground her teeth, her scowl enough to make some of the most hardened men scurry away. Tiago did not waver beneath her dagger-laden stare. In fact, he reveled in it, looking more comfortable under scrutiny than he had when he first arrived.

“Did I strike a nerve?” he taunted with a coy smirk.

The elf scowled harder at him and growled, “Get on with it, drow. Your life depends on it, remember?”

Tiago’s heart sank a bit at the reminder of his predicament. “Have it your way.” He folded his arms across his chest, “Do’Urden and his company will no doubt be in Gauntlgrym trying to stop whatever stupid thing Ravel has attempted to do in my absence. The people of Neverwinter mean too much to them for those heroes to let them go unaided. We can get them, “he proposed, “in the outer tunnels, perhaps. Maybe even in the wood, when they think themselves victorious and in the clear. I’ve been gone long enough for them to no longer see me as a threat. A few mercenaries, an ambush, and we can kill all five of them. Or, just four and you can take Artemis Entreri as a…” he thought for a moment, “bonus to your payment.”

Dahlia let a smile tug at the corner of her mouth despite her better judgment. The thought of holding the assassin prisoner and being able to properly punish him for his betrayal was a very persuasive notion.

She shook off the initial joy at the thought. There was much more to consider now. The first time she’d sided with Tiago, she had nothing to lose. Now, however, the pull of a fresh start and a new identity, a place to hide from whatever retribution Thay, Effron, Drizzt, Artemis, or even Draygo Quick, might send after her, the lull of safety and protection, was just too much to throw away for something like vengeance against a pair of men she might never see again if she declined now; part of her growled angrily at the thought that not only one man, but two could wrong her so harshly with impunity, but she tempered it.

What was the cost of their crimes?

Was it a cost she could afford?

Conrad had asked her to spy on Do’Urden and she’d flat out said no, but now that Tiago was on her doorstep practically begging for her aid she felt that she should do something.

Her internal conflict cut short at the thought of Conrad’s request about Drizzt, “I have a question,” she said. Tiago seemed unenthused about answering questions about his fledgling plot, but didn’t fight her when she continued, “You stayed in Neverwinter long after I left, I’m certain. What do you know about a Chosen in that area?”

The drow looked mildly surprised at the suggestion, “A Chosen? I hadn’t found any concrete information, but there have been rumors for decades about Drizzt Do’Urden being a Chosen of some goddess. There is a reason the Matrons want him so badly, and it’s not just because he destroyed the temple of a high-ranking house.”

That knocked Dahlia back on her heels. Drizzt had told them about Draygo holding him hostage, claiming the ranger was a Chosen on their trip to the frozen hell of Icewind Dale and she thought he’d been full of it. The thought of Drizzt Do’Urden being a Chosen, being something _so powerful_ was beyond her realm of comprehension. He was so very weak emotionally; needy and two-faced, and far from the respectable air one would expect from a goddess’s Chosen mortal.

Dahlia laughed at the notion, “Surely it must be someone else,” she said aloud. “Someone more deserving and capable.”

“You grossly underestimate the ranger,” Tiago said, “just as you chastised me for doing. Do not make the same mistake I did.” He shrugged after a moment’s thought, “But you could be right, it could be his lover,” Dahlia openly winced and Tiago smiled at the minor victory, “it could be the warlock, or even the cleric. I cannot be certain and neither can you until I head north and gather that information.”

“You need to stop referring to the assassin in such a manner,” Dahlia warned, “And I know for certain it isn’t the warlock.”

The drow laughed, “Oh?” The smirk on his face widened, “The statement is neither false nor insulting, he _is_ the ranger’s lover. Oh, wait, I know. You’ve still got a torch for those men, and the thought of them in bed together still riles you, doesn’t it?”

“Enough or you will receive nothing,” Dahlia spat, her anger coming out despite her best effort to keep it in. “You are in no position to take jabs at me.”

Tiago help up his hands. “Fine, have it your way. Will you aid me? I will need to gather information about the happenings in the north before I can form a detailed plan.”

Dahlia nodded, understanding. “Fair enough.”

“Will you aid me?”

The elf, having already come to a decision, let the moment drag on. She watched Tiago grow antsy as she pretended to contemplate helping him. Someone in Drizzt’s party was a Chosen, and she would be damned if she didn’t find out whom. The elf nodded once, conceding her aid, at the very least for the getting fresh information on the people she’d once raveled beside.

“I’ll help you,” she said, “I will accompany you personally to Neverwinter with a small sum of coin. We’ll have to make it work.”

The exile sagged a bit at the news, “Oh,” he said, “I thought you’d just send-“

“My lieutenants are perfectly capable of watching the guild while I am away, and I want some information for myself. I do not trust them with a task this personal. This is the aid you are offered, you may either accept it or leave.”

She offered out her hand to him.

The dark elf ran a hand through his short white hair and shifted on his feet, not bothering to hide his internal debate over what he was about to agree to. He would have to be in Dahlia’s company yet again, and he was only so fond of her the first time. After several moment he sighed, giving up any thoughts of holding out for a potentially worse deal.

He took her hand firmly and the deal was set.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Singing.

Distant, but he could still hear it. The soft, low melody drifted to him on the same breeze that cooled his skin and ruffled his hair. The quiet _swish_ of waves crashing far away nearly drowned out the song, but he focused on it, trying to pick out words and notes and recognize the voice.

It comforted him. The panic that had been swelling in his chest in the darkness began to lift and disappear as the song lulled him into a sleepy haze. A gentle hand settled just behind his ear and the smell of sandalwood and linen was unmistakable.

“Mama-hal?” he tried to mutter but really only succeeded in making a slightly grumpy, groggy noise. He wanted to open his eyes, to see her face, but his lids were stuck fast, too heavy to move. He tried to roll over, angle his ears to hear her song better, but the hand on his head held him still and she continued to sing to him.

He was drifting away from her. He didn’t want to, but something was pulling him away; a warmth, like sunshine on his cheek and the smell of pine needles and skin. Soft strands brushing against his nose and the press of a body against him. Long, calloused fingers lazily laced with his own and tugged him closer with a soft murmur. The scratchy, sand-covered floor that scraped up his skin was replaced with a soft bed and warm blanket; the sounds of the sea around the docks was replaced with merry birdsongs muffled by the closed window.

The singing was still there, not in his mother’s voice, but his own soft humming.

He forgot the words and the melody after a few lines and the sensation began to fall apart. The body beside him was gone, the birdsong, the wind, all the noise drifted into silence. The sun left him in favor of a harsh, chill wind. Blades of grass pricked the skin of his face and forearms. He struggled to move, but found his limbs beyond lifting.

And still, Artemis Entreri could not open his eyes.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He could still hear Parbid’s voice. “Traitor! How could you?” The voice screamed at him in the darkness of his meditation, “He killed me!” Afafrenfere tried to block it out, but it persisted, “Why? Are you really so pathetic that you would ally with the man that killed me? Did I mean nothing to you?” It was nearly screaming at him, “You traitor, after everything I did for you!”

Afafrenfere started with a sharp breath, his eyes shooting open, his meditative trance completely dissolved. Athrogate and Ambergris, who had been rifling through their things for something to eat for breakfast stopped and turned to look at him with concerned expressions.

“I’m okay,” the monk panted, “honestly.”

Athrogate shrugged and returned to his rummaging. Ambergris was not so persuaded. She watched him, her gaze hard, for several moments. Afafrenfere shifted beneath her gaze, but said nothing and ultimately she relented. “Entreri’s still out,” she said casually.

“Fantastic” the monk sarcastically replied. When the cleric shot him another hard look he added, “It’s been nearly a week. What is going on?”

“I dunno,” the dwarf shrugged, snatching a piece of bread out of Athrogate’s hand before he could bite into with a curt “ladies first.” She crossed over to Afafrenfere and continued, “He’s not wounded, he’s not ill, Hells, he’s not even _asleep_ as far as I can tell. It’s almost like he’s in stasis. Something deeper than sleep that isn’t quite death.”

“Like when people travel to other planes, but their bodies stay here,” Athrogate offered earning a pair of confused looks from his comrades, “Jarlaxle’s man used to do it. He went to the Astral plane a couple o’ times, and he wound up lookin’ a lot like Entreri does.” He tore the piece of bread out of Ambergris’s hand with a gruff, “don’t steal things, woman, it’s unbecoming of a cleric.”

“Where the Hells is that kid?” She grumbled, scowling at the other dwarf.

“Wait,” Afafrenfere held up his hands, rising from his spot on the floor, “are you trying to suggest that Artemis’s consciousness plane-hopped in the middle of the forest?”

“No,” Ambergris said setting up for a snarky comment only to be cut short by a sharp, “Not you” from the monk.

Athrogate shrugged, “I don’t know my butt from a hole in the ground when it comes to magic, but that’d be my guess. I can’t imagine why, though. Or how, Entreri ain’t magic. His father might have been a cleric, but he’s got none of that magic in ‘im.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” Afafrenfere sputtered, even more confused. “How do _you_ know the man’s parentage?”

“It’s complicated,” Athrogate answered.

Ambergris cut in then, “Enough, the two o’ ye. Right now we need to be comin’ up with a plan for when that one” she pointed to Artemis, who had been moved to the main foyer with the rest of them, “decides he wants to join the rest of us in the world o’ the living. Yeah?”

The two men nodded.

“We’ve got to get Effron,” Afafrenfere said, “Drizzt is important too, but Effron’s the one with the magic to help seal the primordial and he takes priority.”

Athrogate scoffed, “I vote you to be in charge of convincin’ Entreri o’ that.”

“This isn’t a democracy,” Ambergris snorted, “That, and they went to the same place. Artemis said Draygo and his girl took ‘em, which means they’re in the Shadowfell. We got to come up with some way to get there.” She turned to Athrogate, “What about this Jarlaxle person?”

“Entreri ain’t fond of him, but he does have the magic,” Athrogate said, “Him or his man, Oblodra. But I have no idea how to get in touch with ‘em outside o’ Arunika.”

Afafrenfere sighed, “And if she doesn’t know, there’s always Drizzt’s friend, the mage.”

“The mage that blows stuff up and nearly got us eaten by fire?” Ambergris said flatly, “that mage?”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Afafrenfere shot back.

The dwarves grumbled, but said nothing for some time. “Well,” Ambergris finally agreed, “We’ll see if we can’t find this Arunika, provided Athrogate still knows the way,” the other dwarf thought for a moment and shrugged, “If not, we wait til Artemis wakes and go to the Harpell.”

The trio nodded to each other in mutual agreement.

“Now where the Hells is that kid?” Ambergris shouted only to jump when Hugo appeared in the room with them.

“You mean me?” he asked, sounding more amused than he appeared.

“Kid!” Ambergris shouted, waving her hand at the boy, “Dun be doin’ that!”

When the dwarf settled down the trio set about writing up a list of supplies they would need Hugo to fetch for them, much to the boy’s confusion. He asked a startling amount of questions; what happened to Artemis, what happened in Gauntlgrym, where were the other members of the group, why were they still in the temple and not the inn, among others. Eventually, the trio caught on to the questions and shot him suspicious looks.

“Our second trip was not successful,” Afafrenfere explained, “We intend to return to try again once we recover our losses.”

Hugo’s jaw grew tight and the monk pressed on with his questioning, “Well, the people were so thrilled that the activity in the mountain stopped they may have… sent word to the lords in Waterdeep that the city is safe and can be rebuilt.”

Afafrenfere narrowed his eyes, catching the boy by the scruff of his neck when he tried to scurry away, his lightening reflexes too quick for the boy to even attempt to escape. “Now why in all the Realms,” the monk said slowly, attempting to imitate Artemis’s dark, threatening tone with mixed success, “would they think that before we sent word of their safety, hmm?”

The boy laughed nervously, “It wasn’t just me. The people saw the smoke stop and the earthquake ended and they were so scared and I just…” He hung his head, hindered by the tight grip on his neck, “We want out homes, our city, our,” he sputtered for a moment, “Everything back. I may have gotten their hopes up, and the lords might send troops and merchants to help us rebuild again.”

With an angry sigh, Afafrenfere released the boy, “Go and quickly, before someone less merciful finds out about this,” he shot a quick look over his shoulder at the unconscious assassin and Hugo was gone before his eyes returned. “Wow,” the monk laughed, surprised, “He’s quick.”

The trio sat in a wide circle, silently contemplating all that had happened as the sunlight dimmed in the windows; signaling the coming of nightfall. The three looked at each other, confused and alarmed.

It was only midday.

They rushed out one of the side doors, and cast their gazes skyward.

“What on earth-“ Athrogate breathed.

“An eclipse?” Ambergris thought aloud.

“Not with this coloring.” Afafrenfere replied.

The deep, rich blue of the Neverwinter sky had darkened into deep, blood red; the clouds nearly black on the horizon, cut and swirling with colors that should not have graced them even in the most fevered of dreams. The sun, at this hour, should have been a blinding ball of white light in the sky, but was instead dim, a sliver of its shape covered by black circle, deeper and darker than anything natural. Not wanting to stare the group looked around for other abnormalities, frequently casting their eyes to the sky to track the circle’s progress.

If there was progress it was too slow for them to see in the time they spent outside the temple.

“Whatever this is, it is bad,” Ambergris said, a disturbing amount of fear shaking her voice and pulling her closer to Athrogate, “It is very, very bad.”


	2. Prisons

Effron braced the head of his staff against his disfigured shoulder and adjusted his grip on the shaft. He shifted his stance and swung the foot of his staff against the door, right where the lock should have been.

_Clang!_

Despite his best efforts, the warlock couldn’t make any more of a dent in the door than he had the first several times he attempted to break the thing in, either with magic or his own, still limited, physical strength. Dejected, Effron lowered his staff and sank to the floor, weapon clattering to the stone beside him. The door stood, undamaged, mocking him.

“Damn,” he sighed, running his hand over his face.

Days had passed since Draygo Quick had ordered his men to throw Effron in the cell, vowing to come back and serve the young warlock his comeuppance for betraying him once Drizzt had been dealt with. From time to time Effron could hear people outside his door, but they never spoke of him or Draygo’s plans for him, only of minor goings-on in the castle and the trouble Drizzt was apparently making for the lord.

The effects of days without sustenance were starting to wear the young warlock down. The swing of his staff had grown weaker and his thoughts became little more than a jumbled mess, muted by a pounding behind his eyes. Effron groaned loudly falling back against the cool floor.

The others would come for him and Drizzt soon, he constantly reassured himself, they just had to find a way to get to the Shadowfell. That could take a while, but it didn’t mean they weren’t trying. Effron just had to hope that he didn’t starve before they figured something out.

Drizzt. The thought of the drow asserted itself in Effron’s mind and he attempted to use it to drown out his hunger and despair. Drizzt had been fighting with Entreri when Draygo captured them, and something about that didn’t sit right with the warlock along with Quick’s line about preparation. He remembered when Draygo had taken them both prisoner before and Drizzt’s account of his experiences particularly the interrogation on theology and being a Chosen.

“Oh no,” Effron sighed, “Draygo, what are you doing?” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Whatever happened in Gauntlgrym before their capture, Effron was sure his old master had made a very grievous mistake.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The room was familiar. Drizzt recognized it from his last little stint in Draygo Quick’s castle. He laughed quietly to himself; all the comforts of home, except the freedom, of course.

He scavenged a bottle of wine from one of the cabinets and plopped down in one of the chairs, pulling off his boots and kicking his feet up over one of the arms. Might as well enjoy Master Quick’s hospitality for the time being. It wouldn’t be long before he was fetched; the Spider Queen was on her way to the meeting of the gods and would not tolerate her Chosen being anywhere but with her people.

He popped the cork on his bottle of wine and took a long draw.

The room was so oppressively clean it started to bother him after a while; everything in a place, and most things in sets of even numbers. All items meticulously situated and all the colors harmonious, nothing out of synch, nothing out of order. It was nauseating. After about a third of the bottle of wine, Drizzt rose and began moving things; small items at first and then larger things, eventually going so far as to pull down the tapestries. Anything and everything he could do to break up the choking order of a room that had really never been lived in.

Order made him nervous for some reason he couldn’t quite place.

He remembered briefly how Artemis had kept his room, even the ones he shared with the ranger. Everything in a place, spare linens and blankets folded and set aside, inn room beds always made. Drizzt still had no idea when the assassin found the time to tidy the room, only that he did it, and shuddered. Luckily he was out of there.

When the room was sufficiently ransacked, he settled back into his chair with his bottle of wine, this time removing his cloak and armor before settling down.

His thoughts still lingered on Entreri in spite of his efforts to drink any lingering feelings he might still have for the assassin away. The ghost of a gentle hand against his cheek when he closed his eyes, a subtle reminder of the peace of a warm morning and someone to be beside, tugged achingly at his heart and he attempted to drown the saddening wave of emotion in alcohol.

Eventually the alcohol stopped working and he had to find other ways to occupy himself. They’d confiscated his swords, and Entreri had taken his bow, but that didn’t stop him from running through several exercises until that ultimately stopped working. Frustrated, the drow gave into his anger and began to break things, adding shattered shards of glass and wood to his initial destruction of the room.

He would have preferred something to kill but the guards refused to respond to him or the noise he made.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The haziness started to dissipate again after a time. It was difficult to gauge how long in his strange state. He felt weightless this time, floating on air and a little dizzy. Briefly, panic set in beside the vertigo in the darkness.

Artemis struggled with the panic, smothering it in rational thought. He wondered what the rest of the group was doing, how they were handling themselves while he was in this state. How did he get out of the state? Where was he? Why-

Catti-brie, he remembered.

 He tried desperately to open his eyes. It was a challenge, but he finally managed the task. He was on his back, staring at the night sky; all deep black and stars, the moon beyond his vision. The sound of water nearby was the first thing that caught his attention, then the rustle of leaves. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so and he felt blades of grass attack his skin like hundreds of tiny, dull swords. The assassin breathed deeply and tried to will himself to move, but it was pointless. It was as though weights were on his chest and limbs holding him in place.

He tried to call out, but his voice would not come.

Then, the human heard voices. Two of them, a man and a woman speaking in hushed voices. They were familiar, but his memory failed to recall faces or names. He must have met them ages ago, or they just sounded like people he knew. Artemis tried to see them, but couldn’t find them on the edges of his vision.

“You still haven’t gotten it yet?” the female said, “I cannot hold him much longer. My magic is only so powerful.”

“I know, I know,” the male replied, annoyed, “I need one more trip and you’ll have your arrow.”

The woman made an off-put noise. “I could probably keep him sleeping for a while longer, but too much will kill him. This is our only chance.”

Artemis clenched his jaw nervously. Had they been captured in the forest? Where were the others? Were they already dead or in similar situations to him, held until such a time they weren’t useful? The assassin wracked his brain for whom the voice could belong to. Draygo’s girl, maybe? Did Drizzt somehow flee after they did and now they were being held hostage to be used to bait the ranger when he came out of his trance?

A song drifted to his ears, sickeningly sweet and it made his eyelids heavy. Artemis tried desperately to drown it out with his thoughts, practically screaming at himself to overpower the song. But in the end it was too much for him, and the darkness of oblivion swallowed him whole.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Draygo finally came to check in on him when the guards flagged him down in the hallway and told him of the ruckus Drizzt had caused. The ranger chuckled at the alarm in their voices and the rage in Draygo as they argued about whether or not he should have been checked on during the commotion. The guards argued that they had been told not to enter under any circumstances, and Draygo argued that the drow might have escaped until eventually he shouted at the guards to be replaced and that those two should go watch Effron since apparently Drizzt was too much for them. The whole thing was rather hilarious.

The old warlock barged into the room, slamming the heavy door behind him. “What-“ The older man paused, his eyes scanning the room and wanton destruction that littered the floor with shards of glass and wood and torn fabrics in a variety of colors. “What on earth happened here?”

“I did some redecorating,” the drow laughed, adjusting his position on the bed so he could see in the mirror on his lap. Dark hands pulled back white hair, weaving it into tight braids up and away from his face. A rogue lock, too short to be pulled up fell in his face as he shifted and he scowled at it as though it had insulted his wife.

“You destroyed nearly everything,” Draygo argued.

Drizzt laughed. “I get bored easily,” he explained, “And when I get bored I destroy things. Whether it’s your furniture, my physical person, or the bodies or relationships of others doesn’t really matter.” Another laugh, “And since I have no guards to provoke and no friends to ruin or kill…” he gestured to the room with his elbow.

Quick pursed his lips taking the ranger in. He hadn’t been this much of a trouble-maker the first time, even when he resisted his anger and aggression had been tempered. Something was off about the drow this time, his accent rang more strongly with the ups and downs of his birthplace than the world he called home, and something about the intensity of his stare was alarming on primal level. That same stare shook Draygo from his thoughts. “I can’t have you doing this,” Draygo said sharply, trying to hide the emotion in his voice.

“Let me go then.” The drow said. “A portal to Menzoberranzan would do well. Or even to where you found me. It’s not like I don’t know the way.”

The warlock shook his head, “I cannot free you either. You are much too important for-“

“You are a fool,” Drizzt snarled, letting his hands fall away from his hair, the braids finished and tied back sleekly with short ribbons torn from the same fabrics that littered the floor. “If you honestly think my Mother is going to leave me here for you, you are the biggest fool I have met; and I know Jarlaxle.”

The statement confused the warlock into silence. “Mother? Who-?” he tried to ask, but the drow rose from his seat and bore down on him quickly. Picking up a broken chair leg and flipping it in his hand like a club. By the time Quick realized what was happening the ranger was in striking distance and swinging. The warlock jumped back, the splintered wood catching his cheek and tearing bright red marks in his skin.

Draygo had to scramble to get out the door before Drizzt could swing at him again.

The drow kicked the door, the banging echoing loudly down the hall after the warlock. “You can’t hold me forever, Quick!” Drizzt’s voice followed, “They will come for me, and they will not be so kind!”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Valas Hune scratched his head, squinting at the sky until his eyes hurt and he had to look away, which was not very long. “I thought you said these ‘eclipse’ things were short,” he called into Arunika’s cabin, “The sun hasn’t even been covered yet.”

“This isn’t a normal eclipse, lieutenant,” the slight dark elf jumped at the sound of Jarlaxle’s voice behind him. “Do not act so surprised, I said I’d return.”

Valas laughed, shaking his head, “I expected you sooner, actually. What is the status of the guild?”

Jarlaxle smiled wickedly, “The Bregan D’aerthe is back under my command, but I have left Kimmuriel in charge of Guantlgrym.”

The lieutenant made a face, “I thought we took all the- Oh, wait. I understand. So, I can return to Menzoberranzan now? No need for me to stay on the surface now that nothing needs to be scouted out? No more sunshine and succubi, right?” His smile was painful, “Please say yes, I hate it here.”

Jarlaxle sighed and shook his head. He placed a hand on Valas’s shoulder “My apologies, but you need to stay here a bit longer. I have a task for you.”

The other drow rolled his eyes and openly displayed his exasperation on his face. “I demand to be paid extra for this.”

The mercenary leader nodded, “Of course.” Jarlaxle offered the scout a fairly large pouch of coins, “You get the rest when all is said and done, got it?” Hune nodded, testing the weight of the pouch. “I need you to find and monitor Do’Urden’s party. He was captured in Gauntlgrym, and I want to see to it that his allies complete what they came here to do. You’ll be consulting with Kimmuriel on this, I have to get back to Menzoberranzan, preferably before Quenthel finds out what has happened.” He gave the other drow a sharp look, “Can you handle that?”

Valas saluted him, “I can indeed,” he smiled, “I saw the assassin go down a few days ago and thought you might want to know if he was dead, since he means so very much to you.” The scout laughed openly at Jarlaxle’s annoyed scowl, “I know where they’re hiding. They shouldn’t be too hard to keep track of.”

With a tip of his great hat Jarlaxle dismissed the scout to collect his things and head into the city of Neverwinter.

He didn’t want to ask. He tried very, very hard not to ask. However the silence that permeated Neverwinter Wood left him only with his thoughts and those thoughts outright _demanded_ that he ask. When Valas Hune came back out, small pack slung over his shoulder asking if there were any other orders, Jarlaxle dismissed him.

The scout was on the edge of the clearing when Jarlaxle couldn’t take it any longer, “Is he dead?” he called after Valas, but the dark elf was beyond the range of his voice. Anxious, the mercenary leader shifted from foot to foot. Only his pride kept him from running after the scout and demanding answers. He had grown tired of the rumors about his emotional attachment to Artemis Entreri, but he could not deny that it was founded on truth.

“He’s not dead,” Arunika laughed from the doorway, “And stop making that face you look like you’re about to throw a tantrum and it’s very unbecoming.”

Jarlaxle rolled his eyes and turned to her, “Oh?”

“Yes,” she laughed, “It makes you look like a child.”

He closed the gap between them, smiling as he came up the steps, “That’s not what I meant. And I’ve been told that my youthful nature is charming.”

“Whoever told you that is a liar,” the woman replied, “And yes, he’s not dead. The human is comatose, but with his allies and still breathing. What of our investment?”

Jarlaxle told her of Drizzt’s capture in Gauntlgrym, making note to leave out his erratic behavior during that capture and his strange demeanor when he met the group of heroes in the tunnels. Even when she questioned him on what he’d seen, Jarlaxle denied any abnormality, and scoffed at her when she scowled at him skeptically.

She invited him in to question him further, but he raised a hand in denial, “My apologies, but I have work to attend to.”

The woman sighed and disappeared back into the house. Arunika poked her head out moments later to call, “I expect to be updated on my investment when you find him, drow. Don’t make me come after you.”

Jarlaxle shot her his best charming smile. He was only able to hold it until she shut the door.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The portal closed behind him almost immediately, not that it mattered much. He ducked under a nearby table and listened for guards. A very angry Draygo Quick stormed down an adjacent hallway, shouting at apprentices and scattering servants, conveniently clearing the corridor.

The halfling ducked around the corridor, watching the servants scurry either to other tasks or after Quick trying to find some way to calm him, apprentices just stood, thunderstruck, and the guards snickered amongst themselves. The thief almost fell over at the ease with which his mission might be accomplished if the lord of the castle had done this kind of damage around the armory.

Sadly, that was not the case.

With a sigh, the halfling slipped into the shadows; moving behind curtains and tapestries, carefully avoiding the center tiles on the floor just in case new traps had been set up since his last visit to the castle. He was rusty, retirement had not been kind to him and he was almost spotted a total of six times before the door to the armory was in sight.

The only things standing between him and his target were a single locked door and a pair of armed guards. The halfling pulled a thin knife from his boot, forsaking his mace for the time being. He popped a bottle open on his hip and dipped the blade in the liquid. A smirk tugged at his mouth, one of the plus sides to living in the woods; an unlimited access to poisons, even if he did miss the luxuries of home.

He stepped out from around the corner, bare feet not making a sound, and crept up to one of the guards. As he approached, he scanned the shade’s armor for breaks, seams, or weaknesses. There was one, in the back, just below the chest plate. The halfling, taking advantage of his short stature, swiped his blade across the gap, its razor edge split the fabric without a sound, and in the same motion he flipped the blade and brought its still-poisoned edge across skin, cutting just enough to be effective.

 Quickly, he backtracked to his hiding place and let the poison do its work.

Fast-acting and potent the tonic took effect almost immediately. The guard bowed his head, removing his helmet and wiping sweat from his brow. He checked his side where the rogue had slashed him, but only saw a pink scratch on his skin. He swayed and stumbled, bumping into his companion who shoved him.

“You-“ he said, his words garbled as though he had stones in his cheeks, “You did this.”

The other fighter pushed the poisoned man away again, “Back off”

The afflicted guard drew his weapon, “You son of a whore, I’ll kill you.” He swung, sword clanging against the armor of his ally, again and again until the other guard raised a his mace in self –defense. The two battled their way away from the door, long enough for the halfling to rush back with a set of lockpicks ready.

The lock clicked open sweetly, and the traps were child’s play compared to some of the machinery the rogue had faced. It was almost laughable how harmless the old warlock’s traps were, even if they were tedious for him to disarm. He managed to slip into the armory unnoticed before the guard returned to his post, unconscious companion left behind in the corridor to be hauled off later.

He brushed wayward strands of hair from his face and surveyed the room. Weapons of all kinds lined the walls and racks on the floor, metal glittering in the low light, scabbards giving the illusion of empty spots among their ranks. Bows with elegant designs carved in the strong wood rested on tables, and beside them barrels of meticulously crafted arrows. The rogue was a little surprised that the warlock’s stash of non-magical weapons was smaller than that of his acquired magical weapons. Surely he wouldn’t be fool enough to arm his guards with anything too powerful.

Then again, he’d placed Drizzt Do’Urden in a cage twice, so the foolishness of the man was up for debate.

It didn’t take much searching for the halfling to find what he was looking for, the blade, its scabbard, and the swordbelt it came with were resting on cleared table. He checked the blade quickly to make sure it was the right one; one side etched with dwarven runes, the other with a panther on the prowl, and replaced the scimitar in its scabbard. He wished he could have taken its brother too, but he hadn’t managed to find it in the magical weapons cache.

Having acquired his treasure, the rogue wasted no time calling on his more magically inclined companion to reopen the portal, momentarily forgetting the noise the magic would make. He cursed himself, urging the woman on the other side to work faster, opening the tear wide enough for him to fit before the guard-

“Halt!” mace drawn the guard closed in on him, shouting that he drop the sword and stop casting.

Regis smirked at him, waving the sword tauntingly. The guard dived for him, but the halfling was safely on the other side of the portal, and all the poor guard hit was the ground.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron banged the back of his head against the metal door, trying to clear his thoughts. This was maddening. He tired calling out for the guards, for the servants, for anyone at all, but soon came to the realization that the entire corridor that housed his cell was empty, at least at that moment. Draygo was leaving him to waste away.

“Fantastic,” Effron laughed, his voice rasping.

He banged his head again.

“There has to be a way out,” he said to himself, consoled by the sound of his own voice after the extended period of relative silence. “There has to be.” He began running his hand along the stones looking for something, anything at all that could be useful, but having no idea what to look for. “I wasn’t trained for this,” Effron groaned, wishing in that moment he’d been trained as a rogue rather than a magic-user.

There had to be something.

He did a quick inventory of the equipment he’d been allowed to keep, even though he’d done the same thing a dozen times and checking them once more would not make new items appear. His staff and wands did little against the door or walls. The scrolls he had were of spells meant to be used in open areas and while they would probably get the door open, they’d probably kill him in the process. His skin of water had run out some time ago, and the rest of his stuff was in his pack back in Neverwinter. All that remained was the talisman.

Effron hand his fingers across the surface of the disc. It was cool to the touch, sparkling and smooth, almost as if the charm was made of compressed snow. At the center of the disc was a slightly raised, warmer portion that looked to be made of smoky glass that sent a magical pulse up his arm when Effron touched it. He flipped the charm over, curiously pondering the symbol across the back, noting that he’d seen it before and making a point to look it up once he managed to get out.

He noticed that the longer he held the disc, the clearer his thoughts became and the less his head pounded. “Curious,” he mused, “Jarlaxle only mentioned the ice magic; he said nothing about an aura of comfort. I wonder what else it does.” He tried a variety of incantations and trigger words on the item and came up empty.

“Well, that was pointless,” he growled, glaring at the item. “You know, I was hoping you’d be a bit more useful.” He laughed at himself for talking to an inanimate object. “I’m going insane. This place is driving me insane. I need to get out of here.” He sighed hopelessly, looking at the disc in his hands, “Is there nothing I can do?”

_Perhaps not._

Effron immediately dropped the talisman. He attempted to catch it with his foot so it wouldn’t break and it landed on his robes harmlessly. He stared at the item in alarm for a while as his brain caught up with the rest of him. The voice was _inside_ his head, giving him advice. Helpless, the warlock laughed, hysterical edge raising the pitch of his laughter an embarrassing amount. When he calmed down, he settled back on the floor, eyeing the trinket suspiciously.

This was an interesting development. Either, Effron reasoned, he had descended completely into madness, or the talisman also answered questions. Interesting little item, he mused, potentially it could aid him in getting free from his prison.

The warlock sat, silently contemplating questions. He wasn’t sure how many it could answer, or how specifically, and didn’t want to waste potentially precious advice in the event he wasn’t insane. Perhaps he could escape after all.

Perhaps not.


	3. The Arrow

Kimmuriel tapped his foot impatiently. He’d called on the mind flayers hours ago, and while he may not have total command over them they still had a reputation of punctuality that was being grievously ignored. He did not have time to wait around anymore, and-

They arrived with little more than a quiet _swish_ of their coat hems brushing the floor behind him, interrupting his train of thought. When he turned, he noticed something off about them; a tension in the shoulders, an awkwardness in the space between them. There was hostility there, setting up shop in that space and Kimmuriel wondered if that would prove detrimental to his cause.

_Did you want something?_ One of them asked tone terse and words quick.

_I need to know what your stance on Gauntlgrym is and whether I can count on your aid in the days to come._ Kimmuriel explained, _A group of heroes is planning to reset the prison the primordial is housed in, and I may need to act against the priestesses to help their cause and save the ruin. Will you stand with me?_

For a swift moment Kimmuriel was bombarded with conflicting emotion and, when it ended, he found himself cross-eyed, dizzy, and nauseated. Obviously the two could not agree on the subject.

_Do you require more time to discuss this?_ He asked, but was ignored.

Eventually the two illithids left him, still arguing amongst themselves and leaving the drow to watch them go, confused and a little worried. _I need an answer soon,_ he attempted to project after them _I’ll settle for just one of you?_

And then, they were beyond his reach.

“ _Vith,_ ” he cursed, pressing his fingers to his temples and rubbing small circles into his dark skin.

-0-0-0-0-0-

A hand snaking along the back of his neck lifted his head from the grass. He felt it pull him up enough that he could be moved to someone’s lap and gently shaken. A second hand found his cheek and held it steady as he was jostled; the thumb ran across his cheek, tugging at his lower eyelid trying to pull his eyes open.

He groaned, trying to get away from the prying hand, eyes opening sluggishly. Blurry shapes in dark colors were beyond the realm of his focus. He squinted, trying to clear his eyes as his face was guided to look at something. A person, he realized, all soft hazy colors; a fair-skinned faced framed with rich, warmly-tinted hair. “Dwahvel?” he murmured, pained at the memory of his friend from so long ago. Then, more colors registered in his vision and he knew it wasn’t her.

Dwahvel’s eyes weren’t blue.

He gained more control with the passage of time, “You,” he grumbled, finally pushing the woman away “You _shot me._ ” She dropped him, forcing the assassin to push himself up. It was only then he noticed the glowing silver arrow sticking out of his chest. “What?”

“Don’t pull it out,” Catti-brie pleaded, grabbing the man’s hand before he could reach the shaft, “It’s the only thing anchoring you here.”

“All the more reason to,” he growled.

The woman let out an exasperated sigh and helped the assassin to his feet, “Please, Entreri, listen to me. I had to bring you here. You couldn’t hear me out there and I know for certain there was no convincing you to step through a portal.”

Artemis snarled, but couldn’t argue the point. “Where is ‘here’, exactly?”

She stepped aside, offering him a chance to look around. It was a small forest clearing, trees going as far as he could see and the night sky deeper than he’d ever seen it before. Clouds amidst the stars cast a faint indigo light on the world, replacing the absent moon’s light. At the center of the clearing was small lake, its water moving unnaturally as if something were causing it to ripple but not breaking the surface. “What’s left of Iruladoon,” she explained, “In the Astral Plane.”

Entreri sputtered stupidly for a moment, “The… The _Astral Plane._ I’m in the Astral Plane.” He turned his confused gaze to Catti-brie, “You couldn’t just kill me, could you?”

The woman gave him a weak smile and a polite “No,” as she resumed her position in front of him. “I do apologize, Entreri, but this was the only way.” She lowered her gaze, “I need your help.”

The assassin scoffed, still distracted by the arrow in his chest to pay the dead woman much mind, “Really?”

Catti-brie caught on to his inattentiveness instantly and cut right to the chase, “I need you to kill my husband.”

“Pardon?” he blurted, his focus fully hers.

“Good, I have your attention,” she didn’t try to hide the slight smirk that graced her soft mouth, “I need you to, in a sense, kill Drizzt Do’Urden.” The smirk left her face, solemn mask taking over, “Something has happened, as you already know, and I need your help trying to fix the damage.”

“And I do that,” Entreri said skeptically, “By _killing_ Drizzt.” Only the arrow in his chest kept him from openly laughing at her.

“Allow me to explain. Regis, if you would.” She beckoned over Artemis’s shoulder for the halfling, who came up snickering beside the assassin and handed her a sword. It didn’t take long for Artemis to recognize the blade as the one made for Drizzt by the dwarves of Mithril Hall.

The woman held the blade before her guest. She ran a hand across the blade, its etching of a panther taking on an eerie cobalt glow. With a deft flick of her wrist she flipped the blade over, her free hand reaching over her shoulder into the curling mass of her auburn hair and pulling free a strand. Starting at the hilt, she pressed the strand into the blade replacing its dwarven runes with a bright red bolt that stopped about halfway down. When she was finished, the blue light in the etchings dimmed, but the red streak remained.

“Lolth,” the woman began, “has been trying to claim Drizzt as her Chosen for a long time. She has failed because Drizzt’s nature and Mielikki’s influence perpetually rebuffed her.” A flash of sadness crossed her pretty features, “But he has lost his faith and his footing, and Lolth has been able to catch him.”

Artemis laughed weakly, “And here I was thinking it was all madness.”

“Most of it is,” her voice cracked, but she refused to dissolve into emotion, “truly. But Lolth has had a hand in this, trying to corrupt him and weigh him down. I thought –no, I hoped- that pushing the two of you together would give him the stability to resist her, but I was too late.”

“And you want me to kill him to put him out of his misery,” the assassin concluded.

“Not yet,” she said quickly.

“I do not understand.”

Catti-brie held the sword up to his eyes, “A single blow. Pierce his heart with this. I believe there is still a chance to undo some of this, and I have to try. For his sake.”

Entreri took the sword, magic humming up his arm, “There’s no way…”

Regis scoffed beside him, “Mielikki’s magic is powerful, no?”

“The sword has the same magic as the arrow in your chest,” the woman explained, “It’ll send Drizzt to the Demonweb Pit, where Lolth is keeping the parts of him she plans to torture into further corruption after the meeting of the Gods and the Sundering.” She chewed her bottom lip in an attempt to bite back the desperation in her voice, “I think that there are still parts of my husband that can be saved and there is time to save them. If I’m right, the pieces of his soul will merge and he can escape.”

“He’ll still be corrupted, perhaps even insane,” Entreri argued attempting to return the sword.

“I have to try.”

“I don’t,” when she refused to take the sword he thrust it at her, “And I do not have the same hope for him you do.”

“Do you not think it odd that he fell apart so quickly? That parts of him just went missing for periods of time?” she argued, “don’t you think there’s a chance that she might have run out of time and saved the rest of him for later?”

The assassin scowled at her, “How do you even know all this?”

“The archer figurine-“ Regis attempted to explain, but stopped short when Entreri shot him a glare that signaled his question was rhetorical.

“Please,” Catti-brie pleaded, “Please help us, Entreri. If not for us than for him. I know what he means to you now and-“

“You don’t know anything about us,” Artemis snapped with a sharp hiss, “And I am not going to put my life in danger for a fool’s errand like this one. Drizzt could be in Menzoberranzan by now for all I know, and I _will not_ go back to that place.”

“Ye would ride into a snowstorm,” Catti-brie was losing control of the volume and pitch of her voice, the occasional crack adding to the emotion she so intensely try to hold back, her increasingly harsh dwarven accent not helping matters “and potentially freeze to death not knowing where the man is, but not attempt a task ye’ve tried over and over for decades?”

Something wound tightly inside the man, somewhere around Catti-brie’s arrow, “ _Tried!_ And I was never successful. You are sending me to my death on the _off chance_ I might be able to kill him and he _might_ still have shreds of his sanity hidden somewhere.” He sighed heavily through bared teeth, “You people seriously need to learn when to cut your losses and –“

“You mean we need to learn to give up,” she corrected, sadness and desperation replaced with cold anger that did not suit her face in the slightest, “I cannot. He is more to me than you can know. I cannot give up on him until all other options are exhausted; every last one, no matter how foolhardy or impossible.”

The assassin, laughing, took a step away from the woman, hand moving toward the arrow, “You can do whatever you think necessary, but do not involve me in it.”

Catti-brie closed the gap, taking his hand before he could pull the arrow free. “If I thought for one _moment_ that there was someone in Toril more capable of this task than you, Artemis Entreri I would have found and recruited him by now and you know it,” she snarled at him. “But you are the only man I know of foolish enough to stand against Drizzt Do’Urden in single combat and lucky enough to be able to come back for more. Whatever it is I have to do to convince you to do this thing for me, name it, and by the grace and power Mielikki has granted me I will see it done.”

The severity with which the woman met him was enough to knock Artemis back on his heels. She’d always shied away from him, cowered beneath his gaze, but something had changed now; something more than simple experience, a humbling conviction and ferocious loyalty that he’d never seen in her, and in those brief moments he understood why Drizzt had loved her so.

“You are certain, beyond all doubt, this will bring him back to his former self?” Entreri asked, his stare stern and menacing, attempting to cow her and prove himself in the right.

But she did not falter, “I am. Perhaps not the controlled self we knew, but something closer to Drizzt Do’Urden than the man that currently wears his face.”

The assassin hesitated.

“He has to mean something to you now, Entreri-“

“Artemis,” he interrupted. “And if you are so certain, I suppose I have nothing better to do than try. It’s not as if I have anything else in my life.”

A teary smile lit up the woman’s face, “Entrer- Artemis, you have my thanks, and that of my friends. I assure you, it will be worth it. Even if it does fail, at least then you _will_ be able to… put the poor man out of his misery.”

“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Artemis said, holding his hand out to accept the blade.

Catti-brie gestured for Regis to hand her the sword’s scabbard. She sheathed the blade and began to hand it to him only to hesitate, and pull it back, whistling sharply. “The magic holding you here isn’t powerful enough for you to bring items through with you,” she said to Artemis’s confused look. “But hers is.” She tossed the blade aside.

Guenhwyvar caught the sword mid-flight and held it, looking at the two humans patiently.

“Huh. Smart call.” Artemis laughed, before turning back and snorting at Catti-brie’s smug expression.

“Oh, come now, some part of you had to know I was more than just a pretty face.” She chided.

“To be quite honest, you aren’t that pretty.” He shot back.

She scoffed at him in mock-offense. “Just because I’m not your type,” she joked resting her hand just below the arrow in his chest, “doesn’t mean I’m not pretty.”

“As if you know what my type is.”

Her smirk only widened, “I know you like them short.”

“I think we’re done here,” Artemis said, a bit too loudly, and the woman nodded in agreement.

“Farewell, Artemis Entreri,” she said, “May you guide my arrow true.”

“And,” Regis added with a curt wave, “may the holes you hide in be deep.”

Catti-brie gave him enough time to nod in polite acknowledgement of the well-wishes before ripping the arrow from his chest with a sharp, painful tug that dragged him across the Planes and into consciousness on the other side.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Dahlia wasn’t the only one far from enthused about traveling on the open road; particularly after the sky decided it wanted to suddenly change color. After a long time under the red sky she came to an alarming realization:

The days were growing longer, along with the nights. And each time the sun rose it was slightly more covered than before.

Eventually she consulted Tiago on the phenomenon. He only shrugged and replied, “I have no idea. It must have something to do with this Sundering thing everyone is talking about.”

“This doesn’t concern you?” Dahlia scoffed  “A perpetual eclipse, strange weather, these things don’t phase you?”

“I’m supposed to be in the Underdark, woman,” Tiago shot back in response to her derisive tone, “The sun doesn’t matter to us down there, remember? The whole ‘underground’ thing?”

She smacked him across the back of the head, “I thought the drow were a society that bred men to be subservient to women.”

“Yes,” the dark elf replied,” _drow women_. Anyone else is fair game.”

The elf groaned and rolled her eyes, not bothering to converse with him further. They’d been out of Skullport two days and this was the most pleasant conversation they’d had. Falling back a few steps, away from his line of sight, Dahlia allowed herself a short moment of anxiety. The world ending may not have been a major crisis for him, but it concerned her. Whispers of another cataclysm on the horizon had drifted around Thay while she’d been there, but she never paid them any heed.

She was regretting the choice not to.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Tel’Kashir was bearing down on him all the way back to their chambers, “You still want to help these drow? These barbarians that think sacrifices are going to keep the primordial tame and keep throwing their own men flagrantly into the fire not thinking of the consequences. Have you been drinking again?”

Razlaould, tired of the barbs, spun around, “They would not have to resort to barbaric sacrifice if the primordial did not threaten their safety and livelihood; which it will no longer do if Oblodra’s ‘heroes’ can accomplish their task.”

“If the dark elves know that, why do they so vehemently refuse to let them give their city aid?”

“The same reason we would deny any aid of surfacers if, say, the githyanki invaded,” Razlaould countered, “Foolish thoughts of racial and theological superiority.”

“You mean to say that the thought of your own race as superior to others is foolish?” Tel’Kashir pressed, not missing the jab.

The other illithid folded his arms across his chest, “Yes, I do. It hinders more than it helps and it is archaic both in logic and in practice.”

“You hold yourself on par with the lesser races,” a wet, coughing laugh, “That is grounds for re-education.”

Frustrated, Razlaould conceded the point with silence.

“Did you want to come here to document the ancient dwarves or to fulfill some perverse need to learn and sympathize with other races?” Tel’Kashir asked sarcastically, pressing the notion further when Razlaould refused to answer, bearing down until the other illithid snapped and shot out with a bolt of shocking anger:

“I want the truth.”

Stunned by the intensity of the message, Tel’Kashir’s response was hesitant. “Truth?”

Razlaould felt the tendril of curiosity on the edge of his thoughts and resisted, only to have it agonizingly force its way past his defenses and into his memories, scanning and searching, but not quite finding the right piece of information. It stopped abruptly and when Razlaould returned to focus he saw why.

Tel’Kashir was rising from the floor several feet away, rasping for air, bony hand pressed to the center of his chest as he rose, doubled over from the force for the blow. By the time Razlaould managed to unclench his fist he was bombarded with questions; about his transfer, his training, the girl, his reasons and it overpowered his thoughts despite his best efforts to raise a defense against it.

“Answer me!”

“I _saw her._ ” Razlaould hissed back, physical voice nearly mimicking the thought he threw at his colleague, “I _saw_ the Lich Queen, I saw beyond the veil, and I knew that the history fed to us was a _lie._ ” The flayer held his ground against the barrage of hostile emotion that came at him in response, “I want the truth. This is one of the most ancient homeland and I thought, perhaps they would have a piece of our history hidden somewhere in theirs. How we came to be here, what followed us, what we left behind _anything._ I need this information, if it is here and I cannot afford to have it destroyed before I can find it.”

Silence settled between them, half of it relieved that the secret was exposed and half aghast that the secret existed in the first place, meeting in a swirling mass of frightened emotion somewhere in the middle.

“I was wrong about you,” Tel’Kashir said after a time, “All this time I believed what your previous employer had told me; that you were emotionally compromised and needed guidance. He has no idea, no one does, that there has been a heretic in their midst for a decade.”

“The Elder claims to not be a deity to us and yet anyone that disagrees with its teachings is a heretic,” Razlaould pointed out, “I would laugh if I had the energy.”

Tel’Kashir was even less amused, “Are you going to try to stop me?”

Razlaould knew this was it. Tel’Kashir would leave him in Gauntlgrym, return to Oryndoll and report him to the city’s council. Enforcers would hunt him down and he would be killed, perhaps his servant as well on the off-chance that she had not already perished in the Underdark already. “We are taught to be great thinkers, to absorb any and all knowledge we come across, but we are not allowed to question the authority that demands this of us? Strange.”

“Are you going to try to stop me?” Tel’Kashir asked again.

“No,” he replied, “I am not. Send your Enforcers, I do not fear death the same way you and your Elder fear dissent.”

Tel’Kashir swept past him. Razlaould did not bother to turn and watch him go, choosing instead to report back to Kimmuriel and pledge his aid to Gauntlgrym.

_I might as well accomplish something if I am going to die._


	4. Troublemakers

A warm breath puffed against his neck. Lazily, he leaned into the presence beside him, feeling the surprisingly cool morning air across his skin. It must have been before sunrise, since they days had been turning unseasonably hot as soon that the sun made an appearance on the horizon. Another puff of air, closer and warmer this time, coupled with a soft kiss in the crook of his neck and the hot swipe of a tongue against his skin.

The gentle press of warm lips and slight scratch of stubble worked their way up his neck, just below his ear. Still groggy, he stretched, arching his back and leaning more heavily into the body that hovered beside him. A quiet, dark laugh echoed in his ear. The brush of calloused fingertips ghosted across his skin, travelling steadily downward; across his chest, down his side, and over his hip before dipping below the sleep-warmed blankets, the chill contact of fingers against sensitive skin eliciting a hushed gasp…

Drizzt woke with a start, jerked back into the reality of the cell Draygo Quick had placed him in. The ranger stretched, his legs a bit stiff from their position hiked up with heels resting on a dip in the headboard. Gracefully, he rolled off the bed and paced about the room.

He hadn’t expected to maintain all these emotions and memories. He thought that they would at least they would be easy to tune out or ignore, but for some reason that was not the case. Thoughts of the assassin, and the lovers that came before even, still managed to weasel their way into his thoughts like some kind of parasitic mite. That part of him was supposed to be gone, snuffed out as candle at the end of its wick, but apparently it was still intact enough to wheedle away at him.

He would have to consult someone about this immediately, and in order to do so he would have to escape this confounded prison of Draygo’s and get to Menzoberranzan. Drizzt ran a hand over his face, tugging at the short fringe at his temple in frustration.

Drizzt set to work checking the door for structural weaknesses. He found none. With a shrug and sigh he rifled through a variety of broken objects until he found something to try and break the door open with. It was a guest room converted into a cell after all, how difficult could it be to jimmy the door?

Pretty difficult, apparently.

The drow was forced to halt his efforts when he heard the guards outside his door greeting Draygo Quick. He barely had enough time to tuck the dagger-sized piece of bent iron that once been part of an iron and oak frame for a ghastly painting into his sleeve and step back from the door before the warlock barged into his room in a rage. The door swung violently inward, its protected hinges squeaking loudly and the wood nearly clipping the drow as he stepped back.

“I don’t know how but I am positive you had something to do with this.” Draygo accused, following the drow with his eyes and a pointed finger as he stepped deeper into the room. “You most definitely had something to do with this.” He backed the ranger up against the open door, his stare wild, “Are you trying to destroy my castle again?”

Drizzt blinked at him, innocuous smile dimpling his cheeks, his slim frame resting comfortably against the wood. He cast a quick look over his shoulder at the two guards in the doorway and tucked his hands behind his back so his lower spine wouldn’t have to cope with the lock’s catching digging into it. “It does not sound like your castle is being destroyed,” he said, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“The halfling,” Draygo snarled. “The ghostly halfling you brought to steal your sword back.”

The drow made a conscious effort to hide any confusion or alarm in his smile, “Are you sure it was my sword?”

“I know for a _fact_ it was one of your friends,” the warlock was shouting now, obviously fed up with the game. The dark elf tensed, his shoulders rising and falling, his arms winding tight. “Who was it? _Tell me._ ”

Drizzt relaxed, “I sent no one and have no idea who it could have been; all I know is that now I am out one sword. Please tell me it wasn’t the enchanted one.”

The warlock took a step back, breath huffing out of his nose, “I liked you better when you were docile and barely useful.”

“You wound me, Draygo.”

An aggravated noise and the warlock continued, “If any more of your little… friends show up in my castle I will take it out on you, personally. One of them is already starving to death in my dungeon; don’t think I will hesitate to add another. That little assassin of yours, perhaps? He seems to mean so very much to you.”

White hot anger bubbled up in Drizzt’s chest at the threat, but he swallowed it, forcing his body to keep its relaxed stance. “If any more of the people I used to travel with come it will not be because I sent for them. Oh no, I have much more powerful allies looking for me.”

Unable to resist himself the old warlock bared his teeth and made an exasperated noise at the drow. Without another word he swept past his prisoner, pulling the door shut behind him.

Drizzt rushed to the door, pressing his body against it to prevent it from swinging open when its broken lock didn’t catch. Served Draygo right for letting his guard down, although the idea of a halfling acting in his interests without his request was a bit unsettling.

An image of Regis and Catti-brie being carried away on an ethereal unicorn flashed before his eyes and Drizzt had to actively shake it away.

The guards meandered back to their position outside the door taking jabs at the paranoid freak their employer had become and expressing an eagerness for the end of their shift. Drizzt shared that eagerness and sat beside the door, waiting with them and preparing for the graveyard shift to take its post.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Before Artemis could even register where he was, the group descended on him like a pack of starving wolves. Each tried to inch in on his space and the cleric bombarded him with questions until he tugged sharply on her beard and pushed her away. “Give me some air,” he snarled, “you’ll suffocate me.”

The two men backed off, but the cleric remained at his side, “How’re ye feelin’? Ye up for travel?”

“Travel?” Artemis asked, but stopped her from answering with a raised hand. It was starting to sink in; they’d brought him back to Neverwinter and now they had to leave to go and fetch Effron and Drizzt.

Drizzt…

Entreri, without thinking, slipped a hand into his pocket, nearly laughing when he found that they had stripped him of weapons and armor, but not the contents of his pockets. Smooth stone and metal greeted his fingers immediately and a sigh of relief flooded his frame.

_If something happens and I… I’d never be able to forgive myself._

“Entreri?” Athrogate shook him gently on the shoulder, pulling him back into focus. Again, the assassin nearly laughed as all the concerned looks bore down on him.

Was this what friendship felt like? Was this what Drizzt treasured so dearly he’d nearly kill himself for fear of losing it? It was… strange; warm and comforting, but empty and taxing at the same time.

“I’m alright,” he said, waving the dwarf off, “and I think I might know how to help Drizzt, provided we can find him.”

“What?”

Artemis explained his meeting with Catti-brie the best way he could without sounding crazy; substituting detail for vague terms, ‘magic’ being a frequent one since he knew their understanding of the arcane was about on par with his own. Even Ambergris didn’t ask too many questions, “what with all the loony magic goin’ on lately, I don’t doubt it,” she reasoned.

After his little speech, the group helped Artemis to his feet and let the man stretch and get some feeling back in his limbs. “Ye’ve been out for a couple o’ days,” Ambergris told him, “ye might be a little stiff.” She laughed a bit when the assassin cracked his back, neck, and shoulders loudly.

“Man was not meant to sleep on stone,” the human complained. “What did I miss?”

His three companions looked nervously among themselves. They tried to start explaining, but the words seem to escape all of them and eventually the trio just pointed at a nearby window. Perplexed, Artemis followed their pointing fingers and looked outside. The streets were empty and the houses falling apart just as they had been when he-

“Someone tell me: what in the Realms happened to the sky?”

“We think it has something to do with the Sundering,” Afafrenfere offered, “It’s also been progressing slower across the sky. It might even stop completely.”

“Catti-brie said something about a meeting of the gods,” Artemis mused. “Maybe a full eclipse will signal the beginning of that meeting?”

“Or,” Ambergris offered, “they could plan to place all that they control on hold. Just… stop everything while they are away and leave their Chosen to take care of the faithful?”

“It would explain why the Chosen are so important for this,” Entreri agreed. “It’s as good an explanation as any.” He took a deep, steadying breath and clapped his hands together, “You three come up with a plan while I was out?”

The trio explained their plan to consult with Harkle Harpell, since trying to contact Jarlaxle through Arunika had been a bust when they sent Athrogate the previous morning. Hopefully their appearing with Drizzt only a few weeks before as well as Harkle’s apparent bond with Effron would work in their favor when it came to getting the wizard to send them to Draygo’s castle for little pay.

“We have enough to pay him a small amount,” Ambergris finished, “but we’re a little strapped. Again.”

Artemis sighed, but couldn’t argue with the plan. “We’ll pack up our things, leave what we can in a safe place and hurry back. Hopefully the kid will be able to keep tabs on the stuff while we’re gone.”

“Oh,” Afafrenfere chimed in, “About the kid, he kid of told the people of Neverwinter we… already saved them and they’ve sent for troops to help rebuild the city.”

“ _What?”_

The others just shrugged.

“We’ll hunt him down anyway. Tell him to hold off any troops and give him a trapped box to watch that will kill him horribly if he tries to so much as peek inside,” the assassin finally said after several moments of seething anger. “I’m going to get creative with this one.”

The others didn’t want to know what that meant, but knew Drizzt and Effron’s extra gear would be safe while they were gone.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“What is it? Why are you stopping?”

Tiago pointed across the expanse of tall grass to the main road. “Troops,” he said. Flags bearing the emblem of Lord Neverember and his city caught the limited wind. Horses nickered quietly, resting beside the tents where their riders slept, and the occasional orange glow of a torch-bearing guard swept the outer perimeter.

“It would seem they’re heading home,” Dahlia noted. “This is a unique opportunity for us.”

The dark elf nodded in agreement, pulling the cowl of his cloak over his head, covering his stark white hair. “Let’s see what’s available.”

Dahlia nodded, pulling her own hood up to cover her face and falling into low, quiet steps behind the dark elf. Though she would never thank him aloud, she was grateful for the gemstone he’d given her that now rested comfortably in the empty socket of her left eye for without it she would have lost the drow in the darkness of the night.

Guards in the small camp were few and scattered, probably not thinking any thief would be fool enough to be out when strange things were happening to the sun and the weather, and if they were they couldn’t be stupid enough to try to steal from a lord of Waterdeep on an open road in the middle of nowhere.

Dahlia stayed back a ways, ready to bolt in the event the stupidly foolish dark elf got himself caught. “Hurry,” she hissed, when a dim glow started getting a little too close for her comfort.

A heavy pack nearly caught her by surprise and she fumbled with it, almost dropping it. She knelt down pulling the ties lose and peering inside: rations and some extra clothing, perhaps some coin and a dagger hidden somewhere in their midst. She smiled at the dark elf heading toward a pair of nearby horses and slung the pack over her shoulder. Her faith in him bolstered, she ducked beside him.

“You ride?” he whispered, “I mean well, not behind somebody.”

“Don’t like to share?” she chided as she nodded affirmatively. Another glow got a bit too close as Tiago fiddled with a knot holding the reigns of the first horse in place and she had to physically pull him into a shadow as it passed. “Just cut them,” she hissed when they were able to return.

Tiago glared at her. “No,” he snorted, “It’s better to keep them intact.” He eventually figured out the knot and handed the untied reigns to Dahlia as he fetched the steed’s saddle. The motions came to him with the practiced ease granted by repetition, and the horse was saddled and ready to go before Dahlia even made note of the steps. The dark elf hesitated, however, before handing the beast off to her, and knelt down to check the creature’s hooves.

“I’m pretty sure the shoes are okay-“

“We don’t want them to be marked, it’ll make them easier to track, and I certainly don’t want to end up in a prison,” Tiago hissed back, handing off the horse.

Another torch bearing guard passed dangerously close and the two elves gave up on getting two horses. They led the creature far enough away from the camp that they wouldn’t be noticed and headed off down the road. Dahlia called a path over his shoulder that they could use to lose any potential pursuers.

“I didn’t think you knew this area that well,” Tiago scoffed as their horse splashed along a small section of river.

“I worked this road for months, and I know how to get away from people.”

“That’s true.” She smacked him in the back of the head and he didn’t even flinch, only laughed and said, “Honey, my sisters beat me with snakes, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

Briefly, Dahlia considered pushing him off the horse, only to realize it would be a fruitless endeavor.

Tiago only laughed again as he steered the horse out of the river and they continued off into the night.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Valas watched the progress of four people from the roof of Arunika’s cabin; two astride a flaming horse, the other two on a flaming pig, and wondered how this group of people managed to hoard so many hellsteeds. His spyglass gave him a clear view, even in the abnormally dark night, its lens magically suited for the lightlessness of the Underdark.

“Where are they going?” he called into the house, leaning over the lip of the roof to shout in an open window. “Where does this Harpell character live?” he clarified when no answer came.

“Longsaddle,” Arunika’s voice called back.

“Are you going to unlock the door or do I have to come in through the window?” Valas already knew the answer, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

“Is the moon back yet?”

Valas groaned loudly and fell back against the roof, banging his fist loudly against the boards, “I was told you would aid me.”

“I was told my investment was secure,” the woman called back. “And would remain that way, but for some reason I believe Jarlaxle has mucked this up somehow.” Her bright red hair poked out of the window and she angled her pretty face to him, “You tell me what he did and I’ll let you inside.”

Valas groaned again and threw his pack down at her. “Just let me in the house.”

Arunika shut the window.

The dark elf sat on the roof of the tiny cabin in silence, glaring at nothing in particular when a voice rang up and sent the small creatures of the woods skittering away. The voice screamed hysterically and babbled nonsense at the top of its cracking, feminine range. The scout jumped down from the roof, rushing up the front steps and pounded on the door.

When there was no answer he called, “Lich! Lich in the forest! Let me in!” His hand kept wrapping against the door nervously as the screaming drew dangerously close. Valas knew he wasn’t prepared to take on a lich and had no idea what this one was capable of. Eventually he gave in, “Drizzt was Chosen by Lolth, I don’t know how Jarlaxle could have had anything to do with it,” he growled at the door, “but he’s going to Menzoberranzan to protect your stupid investment. Let me in this house.”

The door swung open and he was pulled inside, “Not what I wanted, but I can’t afford to have you killed or eaten… or worse.”

Hune rushed over to the window, leaned out, and retrieved his pack, locking the window and drawing the drapes when he leaned back in. “I thank you for your hospitality,” he snapped sarcastically.

She just clicked her tongue at him and slipped into the back room.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The guard change was quiet, assuming the room’s occupant was asleep. The two men took up their stations on either side of the heavy door, one leaning against the wall the other stretching sleepily and adjusting his armor.

“Ah!” the tired guard shouted, shaking his whole arm.

“Keep your voice down,” his companion hissed, “What are you doing?”

“A spider landed on me,” he brought his hand up to his face to take a better look, “I think it bit me.”

“You’re a child.” A sharp squeaking noise and the other guard rolled his eyes at his colleague’s immaturity.

“I think it’s swelling,” he poked the spot on his hand, “do you see it? Was it poisonous?” He looked around for the little skittering creature, “I don’t want to lose my hand.”

“Remind me how you got this job again?” his colleague sighed watching the fully armored fighter hunt for a tiny spider that may or may not exist.

A dark arm wrapped around his throat, squeezing too tightly for him to be able to call out for help. He struggled, trying to get away from the tight grip as it pulled him backward through the open doorway.  A cool piece of metal pressed against the skin of his neck. Then, white-hot pain and liquid filling his throat until his limbs went weak and his world went dark.

Drizzt dropped the dying man just out of sight of the door. The other guard was even easier to sneak up on and kill, even if he was the heavier of the two and took a substantial amount of effort to drag him back into the room with his partner.

He pulled the door shut, holding it fast with the small strip of bloodied iron. Drizzt offered a wide smile to the large spider perched on the door. “I thank you for the help, little sister,” he said with a nod, “You wouldn’t happen to know where my gear is, would you?”

The spindly-legged creature scurried down the door and up the hallway.

“Excellent.”


	5. Into the Shadow

Night fell just as the group of four mounted their steeds and headed off for Longsaddle. Hugo promised to set up shop in the temple to keep an eye on the gear they could not bring with them. He immediately followed up that promise with another to attempt to keep the troops in the city in the event Neverember’s force arrived before the adventurers’ return.

“I anything happens,” Artemis said, towering over the boy from his seat on the hellsteed, “and they want to go to Gauntlgrym, don’t let them. Do whatever you must.”

“Why?” the boy asked, “If the troops go down there they could stop the primordial and-“

“A force that large could be seen as an act of hostility,” the assassin warned, “if not an act of war. Please, for the love of all that is holy do not let a group of meatheads with swords start a war with the drow while were away.” Hugo tried to argue but Entreri snapped his fingers sharply, “You are the reason word was sent to bring them here and because of that fact if _they_ do anything boneheaded and get what’s left of this city destroyed or even threatened I will hold _you_ personally responsible. Is that clear?” He stared hard at the boy, who froze for a moment, nodded quickly, and darted away.

“Did ye have to scare him like that?” Ambergris laughed as they started off, “He’s just a kid.”

“Children must learn young that stupidity is an intolerable offense, lest they never learn it at all,” Entreri replied.

“Now I see where your parents failed” Afafrenfere laughed and was promptly thrown from the nightmare.

“And now you can walk,” Entreri growled when the monk moved to get back on.

“Wait- what?” the assassin continued on, leaving Afafrenfere to look plaintively at the dwarves, both of whom were snickering into the backs of their hands. “Hey!” he shouted after Artemis, jogging to keep up, “Entreri!”

Artemis pretended not to hear him.

“Oh, come on, man!” The monk pleaded, “Have you no sense of humor?”

“I have a perfectly fine sense of humor,” Artemis called over his shoulder, “I just don’t find _you_ funny.” He did not spur his steed faster, just didn’t stop it, taunting the poor man jogging to keep up with him.

They travelled like that to the edge of the wood before Artemis finally relented and let Afafrenfere back on to the nightmare. The monk took his place and sat silently for a portion of the journey. When they were out of the forest and back on the main road, Afafrenfere noticed something he couldn’t stop himself from pointing out.

“You seem anxious,” he said, voice low enough that only the assassin could hear him.

Artemis only snorted and said, “You want me to throw you off again?”

“Oh, stop that, tough guy,” the monk sighed, “I just know you handle stress better than this, and you keep looking at the sky.” Artemis tried to argue but Afafrenfere cut him off, “We know which way North is, by the way, it isn’t necessary to keep checking.”

The dwarves came in closer, noticing that the two humans had slowed down, “What’s the matter?” Athrogate asked.

“Nothing,” Artemis replied quickly. He tried to keep his eyes forward, but felt himself scanning the sky starting at the horizon and working up.

“What are you looking for?” Afafrenfere hissed sharply, “Not like you can see much of anything anyway now that the moon’s not in the sky.”

Entreri heard his knuckles crack as they tightened on the reigns and he was sure Afafrenfere heard it too.

“You don’t worship the moon, do you?” the monk mused curiously, “you never struck me as the religious sort. Wha-“

“I don’t-“ Artemis growled, cutting the younger man off, “I don’t _worship_ the moon. But…” he bit the inside of his lip, debating how much honesty it would take to cross the line from amicable to foolhardy. “I was raised in its light and trained in its shadows.”

The monk sat silently for some time before clapping a hand gently on his companion’s shoulder, following the action with a light squeeze, “I understand the feeling.”

The two said no more for the rest of the trek.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Draygo may not have upped the security in his cell since the last time he was here, but the warlock had hired better guards and had better locks installed since then, Drizzt noticed. Goblins and other sword-fodder had been replaced with more experienced mercenaries of a variety of races. The dark elf didn’t have much trouble dispatching the first few, picking up suitable weapons as he crossed the halls following his tiny guide around the castle.

It was when the castle finally began to mobilize against him, that he began having a problem. Found weapons did him little use, heavy and awkwardly balanced in his hands, and the lack of decent armor was a dangerous gamble.

One guard tried to get the jump on him, coming up from behind and swinging his heavy broadsword on wide arch aiming for the drow’s back. Drizzt heard him coming and gracefully stepped from the range of the blade, spinning as he went. When the too-large weapon was out of damaging range, the elf reversed his course, spinning back in close like an accomplished dancer and plunging his found sword into a gap in the man’s armor, between his neck and shoulder.

The blade stuck fast and Drizzt didn’t even bother to wrench it free, instead harvesting a dagger from the man’s belt and turning on the men that were fast approaching. He cracked his knuckles and a mischievous smirk spread across his face.

Eventually, they would learn, but for now he might as well have some fun. How he’d missed the feeling of blood on his hands, seeping into the sleeves of his shirt and staining the rest of his clothes; the easy glide of steel through skin and the look of terror as man saw the gates of Eternity rushing up to greet him and separate his soul from his shredded corpse.

For the first time in days, Drizzt Do’Urden felt alive again, in his element, not plagued by rogue thoughts of humanity and care.

The next several killings didn’t even register with him, his body acting on muscle memory against the guards’ predictable fighting styles. “You people are pathetic,” he laughed to the few men left alive long enough to bleed to death on the stones. “This is the force Draygo Quick has collected to keep the Chosen of Lolth in a cage? _This?_ The man greatly underestimates the people he decides to piss off.”

Two of the still-living men rested their heads on the floor, not wanting to look up. A third stiffened; his skin and clothing turning a soft grey. Drizzt heard the angry hissing of snakes behind him, and his smile widened. “A new gorgon, Draygo? Just for me?” he laughed, pulling a sword from the back of one of the guards. “That’s more like it.”

He dropped a globe of darkness in the hallway.

The hissing of snakes made the creature easier to follow in the complete darkness, but she was a slippery creature, ducking and weaving away from his blade as he attacked. More than once he felt her slip uncomfortably close, a snake biting at his arm or his shoulder or the _swish_ of her heavy tail past his hip.

Drizzt longed for his weapons, or at least a single scimitar. The short sword he held and danced about behind was too heavy and strangely balanced for his arm, it grip uncomfortable in his hand; not to mention the single blade kept him off balance and he had to compensate for the lopsidedness with perfectly timed strikes from his fist at strange angles, the tilt of his body, or a casual toss of the sword from one hand to the other.

A stroke of luck turned the battle in his favor, as his empty hand struck flesh in the darkness instead of air. Claws, swinging arms, and tiny snake fangs attacked his arm as grabbed hold of the gorgon and didn’t let go. He had her first by the side, right below the ribcage, then by the arm, and with a single swing of his sword he managed to cut the flesh right to the bone, the simple blade not sharp enough to go through all the way.

When he released the limb, the gorgon swung it like a club behind her, trying to catch him, but the drow was already far enough away to feel nothing but a puff of air as it passed. She was howling, snakes hissing louder and angrier than before, desperately attempting to knock the ranger from his globe of darkness before he managed to cut her down. However, Drizzt was relentless; finding her once more, blood trail beneath his feet reducing the amount of effort needed. He came up behind the creature, booted foot slamming down against her serpentine tail; a strong had tangling in the snakes and scales along her scalp. Tiny fangs caught on his shirt and the occasional pair dug into his skin.

For a moment, Drizzt remembered the snake whips the priestesses of Menzoberranzan used, and laughed.

He didn’t stop laughing as he brought his sword to her neck, the first swipe of his blade gouging deep, but still needing several more blows to fully decapitate the creature. Drizzt heard the body tumble to the floor, the resistance against his grip gone, and dispelled the globe of darkness. His maniacal laughter down to little more than a snicker, the drow checked the injuries on his arm and hand; not enough to put him down, but just enough to sting. He tossed the head over his shoulder into the pile of bodies. A smart man might had taken the head with him, using the creature’s residual magic to turn potential enemies to stone until it ran out and became little more than a useless trophy.

Not Drizzt Do’Urden, however, his appetite for destruction and carnage called for steel against flesh, not stone. It was just more fun that way.

The large spider that had been serving as his guide climbed up the wall beside him; its sleek body catching the dim light of the torches on the wall, white patch across its back and legs practically glowing orange and washing out the bright red design on its abdomen. Drizzt nodded to it politely, “Lead on, little sister,” he said, hint of a laugh still in his voice. It scurried down to the floor, leading the drow onward to Draygo’s cache of magical weapons.

A dead guard served as perfect battering ram and catch-all for the traps that protected the door. The magical ward was a nice touch, though, Drizzt had to admit.

Twinkle was on display with a few other swords. His anklets and mithril shirt were a bit harder to find, but the spider led him to their cases efficiently. Drizzt slipped back into his gear, stealing a scabbard and a sword belt along with a second blade as he did so. The spider tried to lead him out of the room, but the ranger lingered, a bit confused as a few pieces of his gear were still missing.

Obviously they weren’t in this room otherwise his guide would have led him to them. With a shrug and a sigh, Drizzt fell into step behind the little creature.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Longsaddle was surprisingly quiet. The night still pitch dark and silent as the citizens rested in their beds. There was anxiousness in the air, a general worry that left stifling electricity on the breeze and made the four companions very nervous as they approached the Harpell mansion, dwarves leading.

“We need to speak to Harkle Harpell,” Ambergris called as they approached, “It’s about Drizzt Do’Urden.”

The guards looked at each other and then back at the dwarf. “You will have to come back in the morning,” he said, “The Harpells have more immediately urgent business to attend to.”

“Ye listen to me-“ Ambergris began, but Afafrenfere held her back.

“Drizzt is a friend of the family and now his life is in danger as well as another of our group. I am certain the lord of this manor would desire to help us regardless of how busy he might be,” Artemis spoke up in a startlingly even voice, “time is of the essence and we cannot afford to wait for whenever the sun decides to come back out, if it does at all.”

The guards stared at him passively.

“Do not make us fight our way in there,” Entreri added, an edge of frustration in his voice.

“Is that a threat?”

“Ye’re damn right it is,” Ambergris shouted angrily, “Our friends, _his friends_ , are in danger and ye’re tellin’ us to wait around like a bunch o’ common folk askin’ fer handouts!”

“Sir,” the guard said calmly, hand instinctively going to his sword, “There’s no need for that-“

“Who in the fresh hell are you callin’ ‘sir’ _boy!”_ Ambergris shouted even louder.

Artemis, chuckling quietly alongside Afafrenfere, saw lights and silhouettes fill windows in nearby houses.

“I’ll have you know,” she brazenly walked up to the guard and poked him hard in the chest, “that I am one of the finest dwarven _ladies,”_ a sadistic smile cracked across her bearded face at the cry of “Damn straight!” from Athrogate behind her. She continued, poking him progressively harder in the chest for emphasis, “ye will _ever_ have the _misfortune_ to _piss off_ if ye don’t get the _hell_ out of our way.”

Voices poured from houses now about the ruckus in the street.

“If you want any more information on the cataclysm that is coming,” Entreri added loudly, “and how to protect the people here you best let us speak to the master of this house.”

The two guards looked at each other nervously. People were beginning to come out of their homes and demand what could possibly be going on at this hour. “Fine,” the one not getting assaulted by a dwarf said sharply, “You can come in and we will request an audience for you, but we can’t make any promises. And for goodness sake keep your voices _down._ ”

“Right this way, _miss_ ” the other said, ushering the group past him after his partner.

“Thank ye,” Ambergris snorted. “Although, if we’re bein’ honest,” she dropped her voice to a whisper as she past the man, “I dun take too much offense to bein’ called ‘sir’. Just when it’s by little twerps like yerself.”

“ _Bwhaha,_ ” Athrogate howled, taking his lady by the arm and walking with her into the house.

Artemis looked to Afafrenfere curiously. The monk only sighed, rubbed his forehead, and fell into step behind them.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The elf fiddled with one of her gloves, adjusting it around the too-large ring hidden beneath it. Anxiety was creeping its way up her spine as the shadow of a creature came up to her.

She had gotten so close. So very, very close. But she was intercepted just at the boarder of her goal, and not her master. Drawing up to it, she snapped the moderately sized fan shut and adjusted her grip so its metal frame rested against her forearm and not in a striking position. She dropped her gaze to the ground as a sign of submission and respect, just as she’d been taught.

The illithid swept up to her, gliding across the stones with the distinguished air it and all its cousins shrouded themselves in; hem of its coat scraping the floor, boots making no noise at all. She saw the tentacles on the creature’s face flex out of the corner of her eye as its head turned to survey the group.

_Where are the others?_ Its otherworldly voice rang in her thoughts and around her ears as though she were listening to the thing talk underwater. She didn’t like this one’s voice, it was grating and mechanical sounding, not the plucked-string music like her master. _You were assigned eight, there are only six._

“We were attacked,” she replied, more with thought than her voice, knowing that speaking was unnecessary. It didn’t stop her from whispering the words as quietly as she was able, “I tried to find another route but the tunnels-“

_I did not ask for excuses, girl._ It said, sweeping past her and taking the slaves from her control. _We are returning to Oryndoll._

Something was wrong here.

“Where is my master?” she asked. “What has hap-“

The creature spun about, _Your master is not coming with us. He is a traitor, and by association, you are a traitor._ It glided over to her as it spoke, its condescending tone making her nauseous as it drew closer. The girl let her fan slip down in her hand, still respectfully hidden from view, but ready for defense. _The Enforcers will come and fetch him, and you will come with me, back to the chopping block, where you were meant to be in the first place. Now, come along… whatever your name is. I do not like to waste time._

“My name is Nana,” she offered.

_I did not ask for your name, and I was better off not knowing it._ The creature snapped its fingers and the slaves closed in around her, _You will dead soon, and that makes your name worthless anyway._

The slaves took her by the arms and began to drag her along when she refused to fall in line. A flash of memory shot across her vision like the bright white flare of a lightning strike, in that brief moment she was back in the Arena, being dragged to her demise after the other people crowned “champion” just the day before. A feeling on conflict, equal parts ecstasy and fear washing over her as she was pulled along.

Not again. Never again.

Without a second thought, she wrenched her arm free, spinning the steel-framed fan and stabbing its sharpened edge into the throat of one of her captors; not deep enough to kill, but enough to put him down. She repeated the motion with the other guard, dropping him just as quickly.

The slaves, brain-dead and halting in their movements couldn’t catch her as she came up behind their master. Her gloved hands landed several sharp blows as it turned, dealing damage but not knocking it off balance. She ducked low under the swinging veil of tentacles, deft hand reaching under them for the creature’s neck and taking hold. It pushed her away and she let it, using its strength the momentum it offered to her advantage, back-pedaling out of its physical range and tearing another pair of slaves down with her.

The two remaining slaves closed in on her on the word of their master, but were too slow for the clear-headed elf and fell, groaning at her feet before they could even raise their hands.

She held up a gloved hand. A small sliver and glassteel charm hung from its weak chain around her fingers, pale and glittering liquid swishing in the low light. She tossed the charm over her shoulder and kicked it out behind her, far from the illithid’s reach before dropping into a low, defensive stance, sharpened steel fan ready to strike.

“I cannot let you do this,” she threatened, just before the first wave of psionic onslaught hit her.

Most other people would have crumbled beneath the force of the below, or at least would have fallen into a pit of blackness and despair deep enough to let them be taken over.

Most other people were unprepared.

Nana steadied her feet, blocking out the pounding in her head and closed the gap between them, low and to the side. The odds were not in her favor she was sure, but it wouldn’t be an impossible fight.

Or so she hoped.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The guards left the group of adventurers in the foyer of the Harpell’s mansion as they went to fetch Harkle and request an audience.

“Ye think he’ll come see us?” Athrogate asked.

“Drizzt was his friend, and he seemed to like Effron last time we were here,” Afafenfere replied with a shrug.

“Is,” Artemis said gruffly, scowling at the monk from his spot against the wall.

“Beg pardon?”

“You’ve done that a couple of times now,” Artemis said, a barely-there hint of aggravation in his voice and expression. “Referring to Drizzt in the past tense, as if he’s already dead and not just captured.”

“He’s as good as dead if-“ Afafrenfere’s eyes widened as the words came out of his mouth and Artemis Entreri’s look of steadily unraveling rage didn’t help him, “Wait- no. I didn’t-“

“No, please, Afafrenfere, finish your sentence,” the assassin said, voice dark.

“That came out wrong,” the monk sighed, unable to maintain eye contact with the other man, “I meant that the Drizzt we knew is essentially dead if he’s still turned. The man you described is the Chosen of Lolth is not your Drizzt. Is what I was trying to say.”

Artemis didn’t buy it, his jaw still tight and his glare still trying to kill the poor monk with imaginary daggers, and even Ambergris was beginning to give him a look of concern.

“Perhaps ye should chose yer words more wisely the first time,” Ambergris said, trying to convey some of her worry for her friend.

Afafrenfere nodded, “I’ve been a bit scattered lately, I wasn’t thinking. Artemis, I-“

“Don’t bother,” the assassin growled, returning to his spot on the wall.

The cleric, however, wasn’t backing down, “Is this about that illusion in Gauntlgrym ye told us about? The on of-“

“No,” Afafrenfere said, a bit too sharply to be believable, “No it’s not.”

They stood in tense silence until one of the guards returned to collect them, “It’s your lucky day. Harkle wants to speak with you, immediately.”

They were led back into the same summoning chamber they’d all piled into on their last visit. Harkle Harpell, looking a bit more frazzled and sleep-deprived than he had the last time they’d seen him, rifled through tomes and sheets of parchment making the cluttered room more of a mess than it already was. “I am very, very busy right now,” he said, a little breathless, “Please, make it quick.”

The two dwarves and the monk all tentatively looked to Artemis, effectively making him their spokesperson without his permission. He rolled his eyes stubbornly and spoke up over the sound of the wizard’s rustling, “It’s about Drizzt. He’s been captured by warlock named Draygo Quick.”

“Yes, I remember that name,” Harkle said, not looking up, “Effron mentioned him. He was the boy’s master, correct?”

“Once,” Entreri agreed, “And he’s taken Effron as well. Without him, we have no other way to get to the Shadowfell and recover our stolen friends. That’s why we’re where.”

Harkle laughed, a genuine sound right from his belly, “You trust me to send you into the Shadowfell?” he said as he nearly gasped for air.

Artemis remembered how hit and miss Harkle’s attempts to find out about the primordial in Gauntlgrym had been and immediately rethought all of his options. Perhaps Jarlaxle wasn’t such a bad option after all. At the very least his magic was reliable, even if the elf himself was not. Only the thought of what Draygo might do to Drizzt to harness the power of the Chosen kept him from bolting right then and there. “You were not my first choice,” he said, “But our connections to magic are limited, and you are the nearest option.”

The wizard nodded, taking no insult in the statement. “Fair enough. I’ll help you as best I can. I’ve never been to this place, so you’re going to have to provide me with some details before I just ship you off there.” He waved Artemis across the tables and through a set of doors, the rest of the group falling in behind them as they closed.

“I’m hoping you know the place?” Harkle asked, pulling a cloth from atop a crystal ball. “And know where you want to go within?”

“It may have changed some,” Artemis confessed, “I haven’t been there in twenty years.”

Harkle blinked at the assassin, surprised, “Just… how old _are_ you?” he asked, leaning in and scrutinizing the man.

“Just tell me what you need me to do.”

The wizard leaned over the ball, “Now, I cannot guarantee the success of this endeavor, it _has_ worked before with places in Faerun. To a certain degree. Although there was that one time…”

“I do not have the patience for this, wizard,” The assassin snarled and, despite himself, Harkle yelped.

“I’m going to use you as a sort of conduit,” he explained, no longer making eye-contact with the man, “provided you are receptive to magic. I will use your knowledge of the area, your memories to set the portal, and my magic to open the tear. Given that magic is a little off, to put it lightly, I cannot promise that you will end up exactly where you desire to be.”

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Ambergris said sadly, a moment of tense silence floated in the air before she added, “I can do it, if ye don’t want to, Entreri.”

“You saw just as much of the castle as I did, Amber,” the human sighed, “It wouldn’t matter.”

“Let me do it,” Athrogate said, “I saw more o’ the place when Jarlaxle an’ I were there. I saw the destruction too, so I should be able to find a place that wasn’t tampered with.”

Artemis stepped aside, gesturing for Athrogate to step up to the crystal ball, even going so far as to get him a chair when the dwarf’s diminutive stature made reaching for the orb uncomfortable.

“It’ll be a little harder with a dwarf,” Harkle said nervously, “Like trying to fire a lightning bolt through stone, but eh. I’ll try anything once.” The wizard cracked his knuckles and set to work. It was long process, dull for those watching almost to the point of aggravation, but eventually a portal opened in the center of the room, just beyond the pedestal and the ball. “There we are,” Harkle panted, “I sincerely hope it sends you where you want to go and not…” he stopped short when Artemis shot him another glare, “well, you get the idea.” He began to rush from the room, “My doors are open if you need anything else. I’ll be sure to tell the guards this time, I promise.” And with that, the mage was gone.

“I can’t see the other side,” Afafrenfere said trying to peek through the portal, “Looks like we’re going in blind?”

“I suppose so,” Artemis replied, taking a deep breath and stepping through.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Guards came running down his corridor and Effron knew this was his chance. He banged loudly on the door, pleading for help and saying that he’d taken a prisoner, praying to any gods that could still hear him that he was heard. He kept his spell components ready in his hand, and waited until he heard the tumblers in the lock before beginning the incantation. The guard called for aid before pulling the door open, buying Effron even more time. Not that he needed it.

The door swung open and half a dozen black tentacles sprung up from the ground, tangling around the legs of the guards on the other side, holding them firmly in place. They attempted to swing their weapons at the warlock, but the tentacles squeezed them tighter the more they moved. Served them right for forgetting about him.

Effron smiled widely at them, taking up his staff, pausing briefly to cut loose one of the guard’s skins of water, “Thank you, gentlemen. I promise I will say very kind things at your funerals.” He said with a slight bow before taking off down the hallway, turning down the familiar pathways to a portal back to Faerun.

In an attempt to get away from a charging group of guards, Effron was forced to take a wrong turn and the warlock hit a slick spot on the floor, throwing him from his feet and onto the back of… something. After some clumsy fumbling, Effron pushed himself away and saw the decapitated body of a gorgon resting on the floor in front of him and several dead men and elves beyond it, a trial of dark red streaks rounded the corner and the coppery smell of blood coupled with the pungent smell of death was enough to make Effron want to retch.

Did Drizzt do this? He wondered.

Knowing he didn’t have the time to sit and muse about it, the young warlock scrambled to his feet and set back on his course, bloodied robes clinging to him awkwardly and occasionally tugging the floor as he went.

As he closed in on Draygo’s orb chamber, Effron began to hear voices. One of them Drizzt’s. Eager to stand with his ally, Effron rushed to the door, but came up short when he could finally make out the words.

“You honestly thought you could keep me here?” Drizzt was saying, “Against my will, when I have the Spider Queen at my back? Draygo, you are a fool.”

“You underestimate me,” Draygo’s voice replied followed by a loud noise, some kind of bang and the sound of several things falling over and breaking. “You will either stay willingly, or I will be forced to kill you and your friends. Every last one of them.”

Drizzt laughed, “Kill my friends, I won’t stop you. I don’t need them anyway.”

The words stopped Effron in his tracks.

What?

The warlock slowed his pace, peeking in the room when he finally got close enough. Draygo Quick was standing at one side of the orb room, wand drawn and scroll in hand ready to take the drow down. Drizzt stood opposite him, arms folded casually across his chest, and some strange creature standing beside him that Effron couldn’t place the name of. It was a strange, ugly thing, almost like a half-melted candle in appearance, and it stood, waiting patiently.

Draygo shot another bolt from his wand and Drizzt ducked out of the way. “I do not wish to hurt you, Do’Urden,” he warned, “I only want you to stay put.”

“That is not going to happen, Quick,” Drizzt replied, “My people need me. You want a Chosen, find one that isn’t bound to a city already. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The candle-like creature began making a series of noises.

Draygo started reading from the scroll and Effron couldn’t bear to watch anymore. He knew the spell, and knew what it was capable of whether it went off without a hitch or it backfired and he did not want to be around to see it.

Effron took off down the hallway, opting for a place no one would go in the event of a crisis like this. He might as well put his mind at ease on a few things before he returned to the group.

He couldn’t understand why Draygo was behaving so strangely. The old warlock had always been so well put-together and meticulous in his planning, but now… Now he just seemed rushed; as though he did not have the time to think of the consequences that could come from poor preparation, or simply lacked the means to prepare. Sure, rebuilding the castle may have cost him, but not enough for him to lose his mind over.

The more he thought about, the more convinced he became that Draygo’s erratic behavior might have had something to do with his alliances with the dark elf mercenaries. Artemis had regaled them with enough horror stories about the guild’s leader for Effron to pin the beginning of his old master’s decline on him. Not to mention the death of his strongest ally, the loss of an artifact, and any other potential harm that might have befallen him with the coming of the Sundering.

And perhaps his age was becoming a factor as well.

Effron shrugged off the train of thought as he arrived in the library, instinctively going to the shelves he knew housed the books he needed. The organization of the books Effron himself had set in place during his time in the castle had remained unchanged throughout the years and the young warlock prided himself on being the only person who could find a specific book among the many shelves on the first try.

He took the few tomes he collected and set them on a table, flipping through them quickly and trying to remain as hidden as he could in the wide space. All the guards were busy dealing with the crisis and the bodies, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t cut through and catch him by surprise.

The first entry he searched for was easy enough to find, even if it was jarring information. The second required him to fetch another book.

He was halfway through the tome when he heard the sound of two pairs of heavily booted feet come up behind him slowly.


	6. Too Much to Do

They slipped from the horse after what must have been several hours of riding, despite not being able to measure the passage of time Dahlia was sure of it. She stretched her legs and plopped down on the grass beside a large tree, taking in the scenery of the wooded area they had decided to stop in. It would be ages before they made it to Neverwinter at this rate.

It was so quiet in the forest, as if all the animals had just up and disappeared; no leaves rustled in the night, no branches shook, there were no calls of night birds or even a breeze. Dahlia couldn’t help but shudder a bit. “I’d forgotten,” she said, more to hear something in the silence than to be friendly with her companion, “how slow conventional horses are.”

Tiago laughed quietly, muffling the sound in the back of his hand. “Not all steeds are magical, you know.”

“Of course I know that,” Dahlia pouted, “you just grow used to them after a time.”

Having secured the horse and most of the stolen gear, Tiago sat beside her under the tree. “I am still surprised that you left your guild to aid me personally. Are you not afraid that your underlings might run the business into the ground?”

“Not really,” Dahlia leaned back in her seat, “I wasn’t in it for the business. Or the power for that matter. If they mess it up and destroy what I have handed them, so what? “

“Then what?” Tiago turned to her, “Why do something if not to gain power from it?”

She laughed at him. “Interest,” the elf said after a time.

“What?” the drow stopped masking his confusion then, “I don’t understand.”

“Interest,” Dahlia said again. “Something that makes life worth living. So long have I trudged along in the shadows of men more powerful than I and, frankly, I am sick of it.” She looked squarely at Tiago, “I have lived your life, drow. I found it without purpose.”

Tiago’s dark brow furrowed in offense, “You think my life is pointless?”

“I think your life is _boring_ ,” Dahlia corrected, “So many others play your game, Tiago, and win or lose you are all going to the same place.” She laughed mirthlessly, “If Drizzt Do’Urden and his allies have taught me anything it is that you do not have to spend your life playing the game. You can go to a city and build a wall, you can tear down tyrants,” she yawned into the back of her hand, “you can do as you please in the world so long as you have the skill.”

The dark elf did not respond.

“Why do you waste your life playing a game you know you cannot win?” she asked, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her cloak tightly around her, “And why is your life only worth what another person is willing to pay for it in word, luxury, or coin?” She yawned again, “I’ll tell you: because you are a _slave_ , Tiago. Just a lowly, worthless, slave,” she was dozing off as she spoke, “living in the shadow of another and still expecting someone to see you.”

Dahlia said no more to him after that and Tiago was left to watch her sleep, confused and more than a little offended. Who was this woman to tell him what his life was and what it was worth? His lip curled in a snarl, even though fatigue was starting to set in. He leaned forward, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead and trying not to angrily shout at her and draw attention to their position. After some time he regained his composure and looked at her again.

She’d changed so much since the last time he’d seen her; more sure of herself and focused. The chaotic frenzy of her actions and hysteria in her thoughts had evaporated at some point over her months of absence from the North. Perhaps the fall to rock-bottom was what the woman needed to turn her life around.

He felt himself drifting then, his anger lessening as sleep called to him.

Tiago woke to the deep red light of morning and warm cloth against his cheek and a soft rumble of breathing in his ear. Grumbling, he pushed himself upright and off of the elf’s side, cracking his stiff neck as he went. “Hey,” he muttered, punching Dahlia in the shoulder to wake her, “daylight. Let’s go.” He rose to his feet.

She rubbed the sore spot on her arm and sleepily glared at him. “Still angry about last night, Tiago?” she teased, “Sorry I wasn’t all you hoped for.”

He whirled around to her, but calmed his angered expression with a deep breath, “You’re lucky I didn’t stab you last night.”

“You could put me to sleep and stab me right now,” Dahlia chided, “But you won’t.” Her taunting smile softened to something more genuine as she rose to her feet, “Because you are a lot of things, Tiago; arrogant, foolish, downright stupid at times, but you are not a coward that stabs women in their sleep.”

Some of the anger in the Baenre’s face disappeared, “Fair enough.” He was still tense when she climbed onto the horse behind him.

“You can’t seriously still be angry?”

“I’m not,” Tiago snapped, not caring if she noticed the lie “just focused on the task ahead.” She made a disbelieving noise and he continued, “We get to Neverwinter and we go to the forest there. There’s a woman in a cabin that might be able to help us.”

“Arunika,” Dahlia offered, “I know of her. I’m surprised you do though.”

“What?” the dark elf scoffed. “Her home is in an area that used to be under my control, of course I know about her.” He shrugged, feeling his muscles relaxing, “That and who doesn’t like to wander the forest, Neverwinter is pretty this time of year, I was bound to stumble on it eventually.”

“Bah,” the elf snorted, “It’s not _that_ pretty.”

“So it’s a lot like you then.”

Dahlia smacked him across the back of the head, he elbowed her in the side, and they started out for another long day’s journey.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Saribel bustled into the room hours later than she should have. “I thank you for your patience, Berellip,” she huffed, taking a seat. “Everyone’s in an uproar about this whole eclipse business.”

Berellip nodded, taking no offense in her sister’s tardiness. The new leader of the Gauntlgrym settlement was becoming more and more harried by the day and the priestess took no small measure of enjoyment in watching her sister start fraying, slowly but surely. “The hiccups in magic are getting stranger,” she acknowledged.

“The driders are behaving strangely because of it,” Saribel said suddenly, “they seem to be gaining independence, even the priestesses can’t control them anymore.”

“They’ve been autonomous for a great while now, sister.”

“That’s not what I mean,” the other priestess growled, “the magic is going haywire. They’ve killed several guards trying to keep them segregated, or line them up for maintaining the primordial. We are losing men, left, right, and center. None of us can afford to keep this up.”

“What do you propose we do?” Berellip asked.

Saribel sighed heavily. “The spies, are they in place?”

Berellip nodded, “Yes, but there are some problems.” It took all her willpower not to smile at the look of sheer worry that crossed her sister’s face, “The group that raided alongside Do’Urden is no longer in Neverwinter. I’ve sent spiders all over the forest and the city and all have come up empty. Also, Kimmuriel is not in his chambers and hasn’t been for some time. I’m not sure where he is, but there’s a chance the Bregan D’aerthe might be pulling out of Gauntlgrym after the slaughter of their men these last few months.”

The other woman buried her face in her hands with a groan, “Find him and bring him to me,” she ordered, “Immediately.” When her sister didn’t leave, Saribel waved her off, “Go.”

Berellip held up her hands defensively and ducked out of the room.

Saribel relaxed into her chair, eyes turning up to the stone ceiling. A strange part of her missed having Ravel or Tiago around to lay blame upon and force to sort through these things. A depression and fear had crept its way into her very bones, and it seemed the other priestesses were starting to feel it too. Power was slipping from them, they were certain, and would eventually be gone completely and all were hoping no one would notice. The words “Time of Troubles” were starting to echo in the stone in a way that made Saribel feel dizzy.

She wished they had taken the boosts in magic more seriously when they’d happened.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron dipped his hand into a fold in his robes, drawing his wand and turning quickly only to have his arm caught at the wrist, twisted about and bent at the elbow. “You really need to be quicker on the draw,” a familiar voice laughed.

“Afafrenfere?” Effron laughed, twisting his arm free from the monk’s loosened hold. “How did you guys get here?”

“A certain wizard who I never hope I have to meet again,” Entreri explained. “Where’s Drizzt?”

Effron dropped his gaze to the floor, “He’s not here.” The warlock could practically feel the surprise coming off the group around him, questions coming in force after the initial shocked silence wore off. “I don’t know where he went though,” he said, “I just saw him in Draygo’s crystal ball room with this thing, arguing with Draygo and-“

“And you didn’t try to aid him?” Entreri couldn’t stop himself, and a brief expression of surprise flitted across his features as though he hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud.

The warlock shook his horned head adamantly, “That’s not- No, I didn’t, but not because I didn’t want to. Drizzt wasn’t himself and if I had stepped in… If Draygo didn’t kill me, I have the feeling Drizzt would have.”

“Ye can’t be serious,” Ambergris said with a snort, “That’s not-“

“I saw him with a yochol,” Effron cut her off. “They were on the same side of the room, standing as allies.” Entreri and Athrogate were the only ones that seemed to understand the news, their faces going pale and their expressions going slack, Effron turned his attention to them, “I was surprised, but I think it helped him get out of the castle. I have no idea where it might have taken him.”

“What in the fresh Hell is a ‘yochol’?” Ambergris screwed up her face, “Sounds like a bad cough.”

“They’re handmaidens of Lolth,” Entreri said before Effron could respond, “They act as liaisons between the Spider Queen and her clerics.”

The warlock held up one of the books he’d been leaning over, showing an illustration of something resembling a pile of sludge or melted wax along with a description. “It obviously hadn’t come to kill him, or it would have by the time he got to Draygo.” He said, putting the book back down, “He cut his way through the castle, there was plenty of time.”

“Wait,” Afafrenfere held up a hand, “you mean those bodies in the hallway? That was-“ Effron started nodding and the question died in the monk’s throat.

“What in the Hells has happened to him?” Athrogate sighed.

Entreri clapped his hands and brought the attention of the group to him. “We can’t afford to linger here if Drizzt is gone,” he said, voice dangerously flat and his face almost entirely without expression, “You _are_ certain he’s gone?”

Effron nodded.

“Then take us to the crystal ball room. Let’s get out of here before we’re spotted.”

Again, the warlock nodded and started off, but paused and turned about, “There’s one more thing,” he said pulling the shimmering white disc from his robes. He flipped the item so the surface engraved with a strange symbol faced outward. The rest of the group squinted at it and all shook their heads. Effron took a deep breath, “Jarlaxle didn’t just give us a run of the mill magic item,” he explained, “this is much worse.”

“Worse?” Artemis scowled, “how could it be worse?”

“This isn’t powered with formal magic. It’s psionic in nature,” he hesitated, not wanting to say the words, “The illithids of Oryndoll made this. It’s a brain-mate.” When he received a slew of confused looks, Effron continued, “It’s a _piece_ of the Elder Brain of Oryndoll. There is no way he got this without making someone very angry, or very dead. We may end up with some very powerful enemies on our tail if we’re found with this.”

“No wonder he was so quick to pass it on,” the assassin sighed, “That’s Jarlaxle.”

“It does serve the purpose he said though,” Effron said quickly, “Which is even more bad news, because that means there are illithids in or near Gauntlgrym. Possibly to study the primordial.”

Athrogate spoke up before Artemis could make any angry comments, “Yeah, there are. Kimmuriel brought a couple with him to get ye and Drizzt out o’ this castle the first time. It might be belongin’ to one o’ them.”

“Then at least one of them is dead,” the warlock said, putting the disc away, “Draygo’s notes say the majority of illithids can’t survive long without the presence of their Elder without dissolving into madness.”

“Wonderful,” the assassin managed to sneak in before he could be stopped.

“That’s something we can deal with when we get back to Neverwinter,” Ambergris barked, urging the group forward, “I’ve never been for likin’ this place and if Drizzt ain’t here, I dun wanna be either. S’go.”

Athrogate and Afafrenfere fell into step behind her. Entreri and Effron were close behind, but the assassin held Effron back a bit, “Do you think this illithid thing might prove to be a pitfall in our plan to save Neverwinter?” he asked, voice low.

“If we act quickly, no,” Effron replied, “but I don’t think we can afford to get Drizzt if this is the method we’re using. If word gets to Oryndoll that a non-illithid has a living piece of the Elder, they will send someone or something after us to retrieve it.” The warlock sighed, “we either use it immediately, or destroy it and have to come up with another idea.”

The assassin nodded, letting Effron go and lingering in the doorway a bit. He absentmindedly slipped a hand into his pocket, not even realizing he’d done so until he felt polished stone against his fingertips.

Too much to do and not enough time to do it.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The sun was nearly covered; the last few gods leaving their planes to join with the Overpower. Catti-brie wondered what that would mean for the people of Faerun. She had only seen glimpses of their suffering from the edge of the forests of the world; people hiding from evil and some turning to it to survive. A knot formed in her stomach as the thought of cities like Luskan and Waterdeep came to her, if the edge of the forests had been so tainted with the threats of evil and bleak hopelessness of the weak, the cities were probably too far gone for the aid they were trying to give them. It wouldn’t be much, but a Chosen out of the hands of evil would do something in the people’s favor. Catti-brie tried to reassure herself that things would repair themselves in time, but doubt kept creeping back up on her.

That doubt was an awful feeling.

“You alright, Cat?” Regis nudged her hip.

She sniffed loudly, “I’m okay. Let’s just go.”

The space between the planes was easier to traverse now that they were closer together, but Catti-brie still felt the strain of the Weave’s power as she forced herself and Regis across. They were not meant to leave Iruladoon, and doing so required an amount of a power that was almost too much for the woman.

“Regis,” she asked, trying to take her mind off the tightness she was feeling in her hip as they travelled, “do you think this will…” she trailed off, not sure how to phrase it.

“We’re taking the power of an evil goddess away for a time,” Regis said, “that’s bound to help at least one person.”

Catti-brie shook her head. “That’s not what I was going to ask,” she huffed.

“It’ll work, Cat,” the halfling replied, “Bruenor believed it, and we have to as well.”

The girl nodded, remembering her father’s parting words of encouragement as he went to fulfill his duties on the Prime Material plane. She wasn’t sure if his going was the best of ideas, but Bruenor had been and she trusted her father’s judgment.

“He’ll be back soon,” Regis was saying to the faraway look Catti-brie shot him. “It’s not like he got reincarnated or something, he isn’t stuck there.”

The woman playfully punched him in the arm, “I know that.”

Regis didn’t return her smile, instead his face was harsh and growing harsher as the Demonweb pit drew closer. “Has it ever crossed your mind that this might destroy the dark elves? The Time of Troubles had not been kind to fanatical societies like theirs, and gods know what will happen with the Sundering. Do you not feel guilty that we might be encouraging the revolt and potential massacre of their people?”

“I did,” Catti-brie replied, “and to be honest if Lolth had chosen another man, we would not be here.”

“But because he’s our friend-“ Regis began to laugh, but the woman cut him off.

“No,” she said, “because she has taken a man against his will and picked a fight with the woman he calls his goddess.” She scowled, “She has enough powerful people in her circle to choose from and instead she chose to slight Mielikki.”

“Let us show her that the forest is not as docile as it appears,” Regis laughed as they came upon the edge of the Pit.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The halls leading to Draygo’s crystal ball chamber were empty, but the echo of distant sound let the group of five know that the retreat had only started recently. Artemis could pick out the words “Chosen”, “Lord”, “bleeding”, and “escape” among the commotion. Apparently Effron managed to pick out the same words as a quiet “Yes,” rose up from behind him. The assassin whirled around on the warlock who only smiled, shrugged and whispered, “He got what was coming to him.”

Entreri shushed him and they continued up the halls.

The crystal ball room was mostly destroyed when they arrived; shimmering pieces of crystal scattered the floor along with stones and bent metal from their stands, curtains hung torn on their hooks wafting in a breeze only they could feel. Effron immediately scoured the room for an intact orb and stand, eventually finding one and setting it right. “Okay,” he said stretching his arm, “Let’s go.”

“Wait.”

The other four members of the group turned to Artemis, all curious and concerned looks and nervously shifting weight.

“You’ll need to go without me.”

“What?”Athrogate snorted, “yer not stayin’ here.”

Artemis shook his head, “No. I know the yochol took Drizzt to Menzoberranzan and I’m going to have to go to him soon if I want to have a chance of saving him, before the drow set up security around him.” He straightened his back defiantly against the negative response, “You guys go to Neverwinter without me. Stop the primordial and get out, we’ll meet up somewhere.”

“No,” Ambergris shook her head, “we’re not splitting the party on purpose. That’s just inviting bad things to happen.”

“It’s going to end poorly,” Afafrenfere agreed, “for all of us. You’ll get killed by the dark elves and we’ll get killed by the primordial. Everyone is dead and no one is saved.” An edge of anger cracked his voice and the monk didn’t say any more. Ambergris gave him a pointed look.

“You have everything you need to do this without me, and I know Menzoberranzan,” Artemis attempted to reassure them, “But we need to get this done before all the magic goes haywire and the only way we’re going to manage that kind of time is if we split up.” He turned to Effron, “I know where I want you to send me, it’s a place I can lay low while I find Drizzt.” He began describing the location to the warlock. His memory of the place was shaky and it might not have been the same after all the time that had passed, but it was his best way to get into the City of Spiders unnoticed. “We’ll meet in the Moonwood, there’s a cave that leads to the Underdark there.” He described the location to Effron, who made a note of it on a quickly drawn map.

 “You can’t be serious,” Afafrenfere said when Effron set to opening the portal.

“Calm down, Aff,” Artemis said. “You guys can handle this.” He tried to smile reassuringly but just wound up making the monk more anxious, “and if you don’t, you guys probably don’t deserve to live anyhow.” He stepped up to the monk and handed him a slip of parchment. “These are instructions on how to disarm the traps I put on the gear.”

Afafrenfere scowled at him, but took the parchment, “Thanks. Gods forbid your traps killed me before we even got to the primordial.”

The assassin took a deep breath offered nods to all of his companions, “I…” he started to say, but wasn’t sure what to say, “I have faith in you.” Another nod, and he stepped through the portal.

“This is bad,” Afafrenfere sighed.

“What has gotten _into ye._ ” Ambergris attempted to elbow the monk’s hip, but the human stepped out of the way. “Ye need to stop this paranoid, negative nonsense.”

The monk just rolled his eyes.

A second portal opened where the first one closed. “Okay,” Effron said, “Let’s go save Neverwinter.” It didn’t sound sincere, but the other three members of the group knew they wouldn’t be able to do better, and one by one they filed through the portal.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He was ushered from the main hall to a bed chamber not too far from the Matron’s own quarters. He couldn’t help but laugh a little at the constant glances he was being shot or the whispers he managed to catch. They were all so confused, so uninformed, and so very, very vulnerable. He knew he was going to love this place, particularly if he was granted free reign.

The servants left him in the room, quickly shutting the door and bustling away. It was nicer than the room he’d gotten in Draygo’s castle. Ornate and outfitted with the finest luxuries a Chosen could ask for in the Baenre house.

Drizzt stripped off his swordbelt, cloak, and armor and made himself at home.

A knock came to his door and a priestess appeared in the doorway before he could even respond, “Matron Quenthel will see you shortly. Is there anything you need?”

Drizzt mused for a moment, scanning the room, “Are there limits to my requests?”

“We can only give you what is physically possible without magic,” the priestess laughed, “you want magic, you go to the Matron.”

The ranger nodded, “Fair enough. I want a new set of armor; something that better represents my station here. I want a tray of food brought to my room and the most expensive bottle of wine you can afford to give me.”

The priestess smiled, snapping her fingers and relaying the ranger’s demands to the servants. “Anything else?”

“A tub of hot water perfumed with sandalwood,” he joked.

“Consider it done. Is that all?”

“For now.”

“The Matron will call on you shortly then. If you think of anything else feel free to demand it of one of the slaves.” She smiled coyly at him, “you are free to roam the complex, but if the Matron calls on you, you are to report to the temple, is that clear.”

Drizzt nodded, pulling the door closed after the priestess as she left and leaning against it.

This was more like it.


	7. People Skills

“It does not look as if the sun has risen at all,” Valas Hune sighed, edging back the curtain and leaning against the window, “there is not much time left at all. I wonder how the priestesses are taking it.”

Arunika wasn’t listening to him, too focused on the events unfolding in her crystal ball. She sighed, Entreri on a solo mission was not what she wanted, and she’d be damned if she allowed him to die before Do’Urden was returned to the surface.

Out of the corner of her eye, she observed the scout. He’d grown fidgety and impatient in the days he’d been in her company. Arunika wasn’t sure if that was because he did not like the surface or he did not like her. Perhaps a little bit of both. He’d resisted her charms at every turn and it seemed to make him more uncomfortable around her with each attempt.

She reached a delicate hand under the table and found a small box, a soft ratting muffled by its material starting up as soon as she touched it. “It appears,” she said, setting the box in her lap, hidden by the table cloth, “That Do’Urden’s group is back in Neverwinter.” Arunika smiled when the dark elf turned to her, eager glint in his eye, “and it would seem that they are without yet another leader.”

“You mean…”

The succubus put on her best saddened expression, “Yes, it would appear Artemis Entreri did not return with them.”

Valas cursed quietly under his breath and began collecting his things. “Perhaps they will listen now, without Entreri to sour the mood,” he said, more to himself than to Arunika, trying to lighten the situation.

“You best go and see,” the woman encouraged, watching him leave. “Finally,” she breathed when the door closed behind him, “you are much less fun than your master.”

Arunika set to work readying the house for guests and just as she settled back into her chair to check the assassin’s progress through the Underdark, a knock came to the door. “Oh?” she laughed to herself, “they’re early.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Kimmuriel had not been at his post. Razlaould wasn’t sure what dark hole the drow had scurried off to, but his absence was frustrating. They couldn’t afford to let the priestesses reorganize their force if they hoped to aid the party of heroes to victory in Gauntlgrym, and time was running out.

The outer tunnels had been deemed unsafe by the dark elves when the driders went on their rampage the day before, which sent the bulk of the Gauntlgrym colony further north to await instructions to return once everything was squared away. The illithid was both thankful and further frustrated by these facts; while the tunnels were rendered empty and safer for him to traverse, it also signaled the priestesses’ stubbornness on the issue of their colony and its safety. They would rather evacuate than ask for aid from non-drow. A soft, laughing cough, it felt just like home.

It began as a sense; something living not too far from his position stopping Razlaould in his tracks. When he finally caught sight of it, it was much smaller than he’d expected; stationary and curled up in a tight ball against the rough stone of the tunnel floor attempting to make itself smaller than it already was. Details came next; it wasn’t drow in origin, the pale skin of its shaky hands revealed years out of the sun’s light however, and its long grey hair, pulled loose about its shoulders and face shielded it as a cloak would.

Razlaould approached it slowly, hands raised in case his intuition was wrong and it attacked him. But, by the time he was close enough to kneel down beside it, he knew there was no danger here.

“Nana?” he knelt down, shaking the girl gently to wake her and get her attention.

She wasn’t very responsive, only groaning softly at the question and shifting under the touch, trying to get away. He slipped a hand under her chin and lifted her face to see her. Instinctively she jumped back, and tried to move defensively but her limbs didn’t respond to her commands. The girl was ashen, dark, flaking red clinging to her nose, lip, and sharply pointed ears. One of her eyes, normally bright and golden even in the darkness, had been dimmed in red as well, and both eyes seemed unable to focus on anything.

“Calm down,” Razlaould held her in place, trying to send his own relaxed demeanor onto her. He knew her jumpiness wasn’t from fear, but a little extra calm to a wounded creature never hurt its helper’s odds. It seemed to take and she settled back down into his grip.

“Master?” she slurred, her voice hoarse.

Razlaould sat in front of her, surveying her injuries. Nana seemed to be in one piece, although her brain had been a little rattled and it was affecting several key functions, the most noticeable of which seemed to be her hearing and fine motor control. She was calm still, her temperament untouched by her injuries, as the illithid was thankful for that; she’d heal faster if she wasn’t panicking. He tilted her head up, checking the power of the small collar she wore about her neck. It was a potent little trinket, to be sure, and he was certain it and the ring he’d given her were the reason she made it this far on her own.

She smiled weakly, true speech beyond her ability but she could still convey her thoughts. _The magic saved me._ She reached a gloved hand around her side, into a pouch on her belt and pulled out a small, bound book and silver and glassteel charm. _Tel’Kashir planned to turn us both in._

“You killed him?”

She nodded, letting him take the items from her shaking hand; Tel’Kashir’s notes and his brain-mate. _He was going to have you killed and send me back to the winners’ circle._

Razlaould nodded his tentacled head; yes, of course she would kill him for something like that. He took her by the arm again, and attempted to lift her to her feet. She stumbled and bumped heavily into him, nearly falling back down. Tel’Kashir hadn’t gone down without a fight, the girl was lucky to not be dead.

Walking for the girl was out of the question, so Razlaould took her hand, retrieving his ring and lifted her from her feet just enough so she could float above the floor beside him and he could pull her along without resistance. Nana leaned against his arm, letting him pull her away and back to his chamber.

She was in and out of consciousness as he tended to her; a comfortable bed, a place for her pack, and enough magic that she could sleep without fear of dying. He would worry about her strength later, resolving to just let her sleep off the injuries while the potions did their work. She had a lot of explaining to do when she woke and her thoughts were clear enough to sort through.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The water was still steaming as he sank into it, dried blood that had seeped through his shirt and stuck to his skin loosened and faked away, tinting the clean water even before he was fully submerged. He felt his stiff, tired muscles relax in the heat and slight pounding that had started in the back of his head eased. He breathed deep, the steam and slight perfume were surprising; sandalwood was an expensive import and the luxury of the whole thing made him feel a little guilty.

But only a little.

He resolved not to make any more hedonistic requests in the future, closed his eyes, and sank further into the water, its comforting embrace calling to him.

She would be gone soon, far from his reach and cementing his power all at the same time. A heavy burden, but Drizzt was sure he could bear it. If the priestesses kept up their doting behavior… he laughed quietly.

This would be interesting.

His thoughts wandered after a time, drifting from musings and plots to memories. Eventually, he was back at what had become his home in Port Llast, a comfortable pillow against his cheek, and the warm summer air against his skin. Short nails scraped down his back, and he arched into the contact. A soft, but labored breathing huffed in his ear, along with whispered, persuasive words in a surprisingly elegant Undercommon. The accent was off, but that only seemed to add to the effect.

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he leaned into the contact. Soft whispers became decreasingly gentle bites along his ear, neck, and shoulder. Nails across his back turned into fingertips across his skin, drifting lazily across his hip and up his thigh—

The sound of the door to his chambers opening pulled the drow from the memory and back into the dark reality of his situation; the warmth of summer was now water, the hand his own. He grumbled softly in frustration.

“The matron has called upon you,” the priestess’s voice said sternly, forcing him to turn to her.

“I will be there in a moment.”

“You were told to appear _immediately_ ,” she replied, folding her arms and shifting her weight. The woman did nothing to hide the coy smile on her face.

Drizzt laughed, “I am not even allowed to dress for the occasion? Surely the matron would not want that.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t allowed to dress,” her smile took a wicked turn, “only that you had to do so immediately.”

Seeing where this was going, Drizzt returned her smile and, with a less than satisfied click of his tongue, rose from the water. He held out his hands at his sides after his feet touched the cold stone floor giving the priestess a pointed, but humorous, look. She held his gaze for a time, but a twitch in her lip betrayed her. He laughed again, pulled on his breeches, and gestured for her to lead on. She cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t argue, turning on her heel and gracefully starting away.

Matron Quenthel was waiting for him in the temple. The Baenre’s had rebuilt the structure well, but Drizzt could still make out the signs that it had once been destroyed; some stones younger than others, a few sculptures or tiles that didn’t quite fit with the others, but to the unassuming eye it was perfect.

He was greeted with alarmed or downright offended stares.

“You did not bother to dress for our meeting?” Quenthel asked, her tone reminding the ranger a bit of his own mother, growing angry that he would not raise his gaze to her.

“I was told my presence was needed immediately,” Drizzt replied, throwing a glance at the priestess that had brought him, “I did not have the time.”

“You are a fool to not come protected,” Andzrel laughed. He was trying to play off his staring, but Drizzt caught it. The ranger was sure Quenthel had caught it too.

“Only a fool would think that I am not protected simply because I am not armored,” Drizzt shot back.

Andzrel shifted in his spot.

“I hope that the provisions you requested have been to your liking,” Quenthel began, “You will be our guest for some time, I would hate to see you uncomfortable.”

Drizzt, not wanting to be too disrespectful, nodded politely, “Yes, Matron, it has been most satisfactory, if unnecessary. Let us be honest for a moment: I’m not your guest, I am a prisoner. The only reason you’ve offered me luxury and the illusion of freedom is because you do not want me to escape and find another house willing to treat me better.” The old woman stared hard at him and shifted in her seat. “I don’t mind,” he continued, “of course not. But I would like there to be a frankness between us. I am not fond of your games.”

Quenthel bowed her head reluctantly, “I can respect that. You are here for the Sundering, and perhaps for a time after. Though what your presence will entail is yet to be seen. Perhaps you will serve no purpose at all and we will just torture you.”

The ranger almost laughed at the feeble attempt to scare him, “The handmaidens have already told you what my purpose is. Although if you would like I could…”

“That is unnecessary,” the old drow said quickly, “you and I are not comfortable with each other, but that does not mean we can’t be allies in this time of uncertainty.” She held out her hand, “I would like to see you here, in the temple, daily to discuss what you have to offer me.”

He took her hand, bowing his head obediently as he did so, “As you wish, Quenthel.”

“Andzrel,” she said, and when the weapon’s master didn’t respond she snapped her fingers sharply, breaking his stare, “ _Andzrel.”_

“What?” the male shook his head, dispersing his thoughts, “Yes, Matron?”

She glared at him and he knew he was in trouble, “Master Do’Urden has requested a set of armor and he arrived short one weapon, I assume that you already have someone moving to gather these things?”

Andzrel nodded quickly, “yes, the armor is ready for him whenever he decides to-“

“Now,” Drizzt said sharply cutting the weapon’s master off from whatever half-hearted insult he had planned sparing both man and Matron from the embarrassment, “I would like to take care of this now and get it out of the way. Very soon, I will be too busy to donate my time to you.”

Quenthel nodded and shooed Andzrel to take the ranger to the armory. As they passed through the chamber, he saw a group of priestesses whispering among themselves, their conversation led by the one that had ushered him there. They grew silent when they noticed him watching, their gazes harsh and judgmental.

He loved that he didn’t have to care.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“It appears Neverember’s force managed to arrive before us,” Dahlia noted, pointing over Tiago’s shoulder to the flags filing into the city. The drow squinted, but shook his head stating that the light was too bright for him to see by. “Still?” Dahlia asked, “There is barely any light at all compared to a normal midsummer day.”

“The place I come from is nearly lightless,” the drow replied, “at times even candles are too bright.”

The elf made a curious noise, but did not press. Her drow companion steered the horse deeper into the woods. “The lich has been more active lately,” he said, “she wails like a banshee in the night but seems to linger in certain places.” A faraway look came over his handsome features, “I stumbled upon her once the last time I came here. She did not match the description my scouts had given me.”

“How do you mean?”

“They said she was dark haired, pale of skin, and much more dead in appearance than what I saw.” Tiago looked over his shoulder at her, “The woman I saw was grey, light haired and blue eyed. At first I thought there were two but then she began screaming and, well, that’s kind of hard to mistake.”

Dahlia chewed her lip nervously, “You don’t say.” She wasn’t sure what the change in Valindra Shadowmantle’s appearance could mean, but it wasn’t a good thing.

The pair hurried across barely-there paths in the forest. Tiago managed to get them lost once and Dahlia had to point him in the right direction, or rather, another wrong direction. Eventually, though, through a combined effort and the occasional orientation at a river or place where most of the sky peaked through the trees, they managed to find the place.

“This was much easier with Do’Urden,” Dahlia commented as she slid down from the horse.

“Do’Urden is a _ranger_. I would hope it would be,” Tiago snorted, “the forest is supposed to be his home.”

“Don’t tell him that,” she scoffed, “he believes the snow and wind of Icewind Dale to be his homeland.”

They shared a laugh at the ranger’s expense as the approached the witch’s door.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The one thing Effron hated most about returning to the Shadowfell had to be the strange passage of time. He felt like he’d been there for weeks on end, but the boy that greeted them in their temple hideout along with affirmation from the others in his group, assured the warlock that he’d only been gone for a few days. “I hate that place so much,” he grumbled, running a wary hand over his face, waiting for Afafrenfere to disarm Entreri’s traps.

“These are-“ the monk had been muttering to himself in broken sentences since he started his work, “These are impressive. I’m glad he wrote this stuff down.”

“Too complicated for ye, shady?” Ambergris laughed.

Athrogate chuckled with her, “Don’t be too hard on the boy, Amber. Jarlaxle set off one of Entreri’s traps once. The entire _street_ took hours to thaw.”

The monk turned to face him, “Wait, I think I heard about that. I thought it was an old wives tale about how you should always knock before entering a home.”

“Nope. That really happened, an’ Artemis is the one that did it.” The dwarf laughed. “He also plays the flute and drinks weak beer.”

“Lies,” Effron chimed in.

“I swear, I saw him do it with me own eyes,” Athrogate chuckled, “That gross Damaran honey mead that was probably made by goblins.”

The group laughed a little, fading into an awkward silence as if the assassin might somehow hear them laughing at his expense all the way in Menzoberranzan. They stayed like that until Afafrenfere got the last of the traps disarmed and the group could retrieve their leftover gear. The warlock laughing with joy that most of his extra spell components had kept well. He made sure to take what he needed in order to escape another solidly locked door first, just in case.

Hugo, not knowing what to do with himself, hung back near the window, waiting for the group to direct him. A noise caught his attention; at first he thought it was the distant rumbling of another earthquake, but when he looked outside he realized his mistake, “We have a problem,” he said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard and wincing when it cracked.

“What is it?” Ambergris was the first to respond, getting the rest of the group’s attention.

“Neverember’s men have arrived,” the boy said weakly.

“Already?” Afafrenfere rose from his spot admiring Entreri’s handiwork to join the boy at the window.

 “Wait, what?” Effron looked to the others, confused. Ambergris explained to him what had happened and how the Neverwinter guard would be returning and potentially throwing a wrench into their plan. Afafrenfere cursed loudly just as she finished, drawing attention to himself.

“The people are probably telling them that the primordial is still a problem,” Afafrenfere explained. “They may march on Gauntlgrym.”

“Oh no,” the dwarves groaned in near-perfect unison.

“We have to try and stop them,” Ambergris rose and slung her mace over her shoulder, “C’mon. Both of ya.” She gestured to Afafrenfere and Athrogate.

“What about me?” Effron asked, beginning to rise.

“No offense, kid, but it might be better if you stay here,” Ambergris said with the kindest smile she could muster, “There are not many humans that take too kindly to yer ilk, if ye know what I mean. Especially after-”

Effron bowed his head allowing the dwarf to trail off, but said nothing as he watched them dash away.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Arunika smiled widely at the pair as she ushered them inside. “I never expected to see the two of you together again after the failure in Ashenglade,” she laughed. The glares they gave her were particularly hilarious. “What is it you need?”

“We are looking for Drizzt Do’Urden and Artemis Entreri,” Tiago said before Dahlia could raise her voice to speak, “We know that you have the power to find them for us.”

The woman twirled a lock of her hair and leaned against the mantle of her fireplace, “Entreri yes, but Do’Urden is beyond my reach.”

“I thought they were travelling together” Dahlia screwed up her face, but a smile broke up the expression, “Did the relationship not work out?”

“Yes and no,” Arunika answered, “Drizzt left Artemis several days ago.”

That set Dahlia back a bit. If anything she had expected Artemis to get fed up with Drizzt and go home to Calimport. Drizzt was too needy to leave a person unless he had someone or something else to cling on to, even if it was as stupid as a memory. Tiago obviously had the same line of thinking since his expression matched her own perfectly.

“Where did he go?”

The woman moved from the mantle, “I am unsure. Like I said, my powers cannot reach him. What I do know is that wherever he is, Entreri has gone after him.”

“You lie,” Dahlia snapped in spite of herself, earning curious looks from the room’s other occupants. “Entreri is not the type to chase someone that has left him,” she attempted to clarify.

Tiago shook his head in mock embarrassment for her.

“If that person had left him willingly, then I would agree with you,” the redhead replied, “but that was not so here. You see,” she leaned against a table, situating herself between the elf and her drow companion and resting a hand on each of their shoulders, “Drizzt did not leave Artemis for conventional reasons. He was, in a sense, taken from the man, and Artemis Entreri might not be one to chase, but he does hate to be stolen from.” She laughed, “Just ask Jarlaxle.”

Dahlia laughed, snorting slightly at the end, “You’re saying someone whisked Drizzt away from Artemis, just swept him off his feet and so enthralled him he followed her somewhere else?”

“Precisely.”

The elf had an idea of exactly who that woman could be, though how she would come back to life was beyond her. The drow, obviously not having the same information, did not hesitate in asking for a name.

What the witch said would have knocked them both from their feet had they not already been seated. “Lolth,” she said, adding a bit of a childish lilt to her voice. “Lolth took the drow from his man, and Entreri isn’t letting go without a fight.”

“You can’t be serious” The two elves said together.

“Drizzt Do’Urden has been named Lolth’s Chosen,” she replied, turning to face Tiago, “Certainly you must have heard this news while you were in Gauntlgrym. The priestesses seemed to know all about it. I assumed that was why you wanted him in the first place.”

Tiago did not answer for some time. When he did, he just tapped Dahlia on the shoulder and told her they were leaving and the witch had nothing worth telling them, and dissuaded any argument she raised. Once they were outside and, what he believed to be well out of earshot, he told her that he knew where Do’Urden would be and where Entreri was headed.

Arunika laughed, watching the little brown spider, jerky in its movements with the new enchantment, burrow its way into the dark elf’s pack. Now she did too.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Wait!” A voice shouted over the crowd. The soldiers had announced that they would march on Gauntlgrym and solve the dark elf problem once and for all and amidst the cheers a few dissenters spoke up, “Wait! Stop!”

 A trio drove their way to the front of the group; a human in simple clothing, curly hair handing in his face and a pair of dwarves bearing dark beards and heavy weapons. “Wait,” the human said again, breath coming easy unlike his companions, “Don’t do this.”

The leader of the brigade came forward, still astride his horse and towering over the small man, “Who are you?”

“We,” Afafrenfere gestured to himself and the dwarves, “are friends of Neverwinter. We helped them during the last earthquake, and we have a plan to stop them altogether.”

The captain scoffed at him, “We have a plan as well. Why should I trust three scavengers to do this when my well-trained men are perfectly willing and able?”

The monk turned to the people, “You remember us, don’t you? We helped you only a few months ago, we pulled you from crumbling houses and helped you pick up the pieces.” The people nodded, but the soldier didn’t seem impressed.

“There are dark elves in those tunnels, and perhaps something even nastier. The dwarves might hold their own, but you don’t strike me as the fighting type.” Afafrenfere tried to argue but the captain wasn’t having it. “Enough of your blather boy, we march at dawn and there’s nothing you can do to stop us.”

The dwarves shouted after him. Afafrenfere, not about to be silenced, quick stepped up and took the reins right from the large man’s hand, “If you would just listen to me—“

Angered by the brazen action, the captain tried to shove him away, “I’ve had just about enough of this.” He clicked his tongue and his horse reared up, threatening to trample the monk and raising new protests from the dwarves. Afafrenfere might have gotten out of the way in time, if he’d needed to, but a shot of light knocked both horse and rider backwards onto the stones. The creature and the man rose to their feet, shaken but uninjured aside from a few bruises. “The Hell-“

Effron stepped up beside his companions, meeting their alarmed and confused looks with a sigh and an exasperated, “The bone-headedness of men never ceases to amaze me.”

“And just who are you?” the guard spat. He might have tall on his horse, but on the ground Effron’s tall, lean form towered over him.

“I come on behalf of Barrabus the Grey. In fact,” he gestured to his companions, “We all do. Master Barrabus had employed us to come up with and enact a plan to save Neverwinter from its primordial problem.”

The name gave the soldier some pause. Apparently the name still rang as that of a hero in this city; though after so more than twenty years he couldn’t have been more than legend. Ultimately, the man laughed, “Barrabus the Grey? There’s no way in all the Realms that man could still be in fighting condition.”

“He is a shade,” Effron said calmly, “his lifespan mimics that of the elves.”

“Why isn’t _he_ here?” His gaze shifted to the others in the group, lingering on Afafrenfere.

“He has gone with Drizzt Do’Urden to liaise with the dark elves about allowing us passage to the primordial,” the monk said, easily tacking on to Effron’s lie. “We await their word to leave so we can escort our mage,” he nodded to Effron, “there unscathed and solve the problem.”

“Drizzt Do’Urden?” a voice in the crowd spoke up, “He’s working with his kin now?” A general grumbling of disapproval followed.

“He’s serving more as a translator,” Athrogate barked above the din, “Actin’ yer best interest, so ye best be grateful.”

Effron took the lead once more when the noise died down, “We’ve been told to request that you hold off until we’ve made the attempt. If you march on Gauntlgrym now, it could be seen as an act of war and bring the whole of Menzoberranzan down upon you and Neverwinter will be a ruin. It should only take us a few days to finish our preparations and go, you can give us that much time.”

“And if you fail?” The soldier raised an eyebrow.

“The we’ll be too dead to argue with ye,” Ambergris growled at him, “and ye can bring the dark elves to yer doorstep and get yer citizen’s killed with yer brashness.”

Reluctantly, the companion’s demands were met and they were granted the time. The captain told his men to settle in just as they’d planned and let this ‘hero’ and his crew try to solve things without a conflict. The crowd dispersed along with the men until only the quartet and the captain remained.

“You have four days,” he said sternly, “and we’re marching whether you’ve left or not.”

The warlock’s composure wavered a bit, “Excuse me?” he said, closing the gap between them and using not only his height but his odd visage of elfin and tiefling features to his advantage, “I don’t think you heard me. You will march after we leave,” his voice lowered to rumbling, bestial tone, “if you march at all.”

The captain said no more after that.

 Afafrenfere waited until they were back at the temple to breach the subject: “Effron,” he breathed, a slight laugh shaking his voice and dry mouth altering his tone enough the he had to swallow hard and start over, “Effron when did you grow a pair?”

The warlock laughed, but slowed to a stop when he saw the worried look on Ambergris’s face and the alarm the Afafrenfere was trying to hide, “I bought us time didn’t I?”

“I dun ever want to see ye get like that again,” Ambergris said, taking on the role of stern parent for a moment, “Authority is all well and good but that… that wasn’t ye.”

Effron’s amused smile faded to a look of worry, “It wasn’t _that_ bad. Was it?” The others all nodded at varying paces, “Oh. I didn’t-“ he tried to say something in his defense, but nothing came and worry very quickly turned to desperation.

“It’s okay,” Afafrenfere patted him on his disfigured shoulder, “You bought us time. That’s all that matters right now. We can deal with your social skills later.”


	8. Insult and Injury

He woke to the bite of sharp teeth against his thigh and hand in his hair, and it disoriented him a bit. When he remembered where he was, Drizzt settled in to the respective affections of his two bedmates. The woman at his shoulder, a priestess he was almost certain was related to the weapon’s master, leaned in closer, roughly nipping at the still-tender skin of his neck. He tangled a hand in her hair, slender fingers catching on the few braids that stubbornly held on through the previous evening’s activity.

The man at his hip, the priestess’s slave, bit him again; the bite higher than the first one and gentler than those of his master. Drizzt couldn’t help but notice the younger male was more at ease than he had been when the priestess had called him to the ranger’s bedchamber. Drizzt absently ran a hand through his hair, encouraging the progression of the warm mouth, sharp teeth, and wet tongue up his thigh. The ranger gasped and arched his back when the slave finally stopped, humming softly against oversensitive skin and sending vibrations all the way up his abdomen.

Drizzt pulled the priestess closer, his free arm moving down to wrap about her waist and burying his face in the crook of her neck. She laughed darkly in his ear, her sharp nails digging into his shoulder and scratching ever-so gently down his chest and the tight muscles in his stomach. He muffled a moan against her faintly perfumed skin.

The priestess snapped her fingers; Drizzt felt the mouth leave his skin and the fog that had settled behind his eyes began to dissipate. She pulled him up into a sitting position. Shifting of the bed sheets behind him signaled the movement of her slave before teeth sank into the flesh of Drizzt’s shoulder, more painful and eager than those same teeth had been on his hip and leg. Strong, work-worn hands held the ranger in place, fingers pressing into freshly forming bruises.

The female lifted herself onto his lap, her hands tangling in his hair and pressing close with deep, slow kiss.

For a moment, just a flash across behind his closed eyes, Drizzt was back in Port Llast and in bed with Artemis Entreri. The touches were gentler and Drizzt could feel the cool night air warming with the coming of the sun. An ache gripped his heart and he trembled when he opened his eyes to darkness.

The ranger barred his teeth, tugging sharply enough on the hair of the woman in his lap to tilt her head back to face the ceiling. She tried not to make any noise, but Drizzt could hear her breathing quicken. She knew that she’d angered him. He felt the man behind him draw in closer; whether it was in potential defense of his master or an eagerness to see his tormenter punished, Drizzt wasn’t sure and didn’t really care.

“What did I tell you?” he growled dangerously against her neck.

She made a soft noise; shaky and unsure but not apologetic in the slightest. When the ranger refused to let her go, sharply nailed hands dug into the skin of his of his arm just above the elbow. The male at his back nuzzled his hair.

“Hurt her,” the slave whispered in his ear, “she can take it.”

Drizzt was almost impressed by the brazen act of disloyalty. A part of him did want to hurt the woman, but he resisted the urge. “Don’t” he said to her slowly, “do it again.”

“Yes,” she said softly, “of course.”

He released her. Her slave made a soft, plaintive noise, but didn’t object.

A knock came to the door, stopping them short and despite protest from his bedmates, Drizzt rose to answer it, wrapping one of several haphazardly tossed aside blankets about his waist as he crossed the room. “Yes?” he asked with a coy smile before the door was even fully open.

Andzrel stood, sword in hand tapping his foot impatiently and letting his gaze roam about the hall as he waited for the door to open. He started a bit, scowling at the still mostly-nude ranger. “Am I interrupting something?”

“That depends; are you going to join us?” Drizzt chuckled.

The weapon’s master scowl deepened. “No,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “I was told to inform you that the training hall is open, should you want to test out your new weapons and armor.”

The ranger cocked and eyebrow, leaning against the door, “Matron Mother Quenthel sent her weapon’s master all this way to tell me that?” From what he’d learned of the layout of the labyrinthine first house the training hall and the armory were on the other side of the building from his chambers. “You came for another reason.”

Andzrel’s jaw tightened and Drizzt knew he had the man. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you,” he said through clenched teeth. His teeth ground as he saw past Drizzt to the room, particularly to what was waiting for the Chosen in his bed. “I’ll come back at a better time,” he said, turning to leave.

Drizzt waited until he was almost out of earshot before calling after him, “I accept your challenge.” When the weapon’s master whirled around to scowl at him angrily, Drizzt just smiled and ducked back into his room and into his bed.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Afafrefere tried to shake the nervous tension out of his arms and hands in a way that wasn’t blatantly obvious, but Effron caught it. The dwarves had settled in to strategize and discuss the layout of Gauntlgrym to pick out their best route, leaving the monk and the warlock to prepare for battle. Afafrenfere had almost immediately broken off from the group to run through a few stretches Effron recognized. The monk had tried to teach those to him during their stint in Port Llast; with the right breathing patterns they were supposed to relieve stress. The technique had never worked for Effron, and it didn’t seem to be working too well for Afafrenfere.

“Something the matter?” Effron asked, coming up close to the monk but just out of his range.

The disciplined monk jumped in surprise, quietly cursing himself afterward.  “Yes, Effron?” he growled, whirling in his spot.

The warlock raised an eyebrow, “You seem tense.” He made a quiet noise, “You’ve been this way since we got here.”

“Nonsense,” Afafrenfere scoffed.

“You nearly pulled a man off of his horse, and almost got yourself trampled,” Effron deadpanned, “You aren’t yourself. What’s going on—“

“Back off, Effron,” he growled, running a hand through his hair and shaking loose a few tangled curls.

The warlock made a curious noise and when Afafrenfere turned back around he’d gotten closer, leaning forward a bit to make their heights closer to level. A sharp canine nearly punctured his thin lip as mismatched eyes stared hard at the human. “Last time,” Effron said in a quieter version of the tone he’d pulled with the captain earlier, “we went into that dungeon with someone who wasn’t all-in emotionally, we failed. Not once, but twice. Now Drizzt is gone, along with Entreri, and we’re on our own because of that, and so help me, Afafrenfere I _will_ not fail again and lose more people.”

Had this been the Effron that hired Afafrenfere all that time ago; the scrawny little punk that couldn’t handle leadership and stood like a lone sickly sapling in a dead forest, ready to be knocked over by a harsh breeze, Afafrenfere wouldn’t have taken the threat lightly. He’d would have puffed up, just like Parbid used to, and put the audacious kid in his place.

It was the thought of Parbid that shattered what little resolve Afafrenfere had maintaining his passive visage. His clenched jaw began to tremble and his eyes lost focus. “Don’t,” was all he could manage to say without his voice cracking.

He was finally aware of how empty the space behind him was and his heart ached.

“Aff,” Effron’s voice returned to its usual, awkward pitch, “we need you. And we can’t afford to have you lose focus out there. What’s going on?” The warlock wrapped his arm loosely around his own torso; Afafrenfere noticed some time ago the gesture was Effron’s equivalent to crossing his arms across his chest.

The warlock had such strange mannerisms.

Still, Afafrenfere said nothing. Effron sighed and asked, “Does Amber know?”

“Not really,” the monk finally admitted. “It was just an illusion—“ He stopped short, realizing that Effron had been imprisoned when he’d told the others. “In Gauntlgrym,” he explained, “I got to the archers and this illusionist… I saw Parbid.” He sighed, hanging his head and clenching his fists at his sides.

When he looked up again, Effron’s expression surprised him. It was almost… triumphant. “I knew it,” he laughed; it wasn’t a mocking laugh or even a humorous one. “You didn’t get revenge and it still bothers you.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Afafrenfere bit back before he could stop himself.

“Of course it does,” Effron scoffed, offended. The offense drained out of his tone as he realized that he’d taken Afafrenfere’s bait to change the subject, “There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about what she’s doing and how she just got away with what she did to me with complete impunity. I lie awake at night and remember the things she said on that ship to justify her actions and how hollow they were.” He sighed, “It’s not worth it though.”

Afafrenfere laughed weakly, “So you just forgave her?”

“Hell no,” Effron said quickly. “But your situation with Drizzt was different.” When Afafrenfere’s barely amused face darkened he added, “I hired you to _kill_ Drizzt and capture Dahlia. And Drizzt defended himself from you and I have no doubt in my mind that he would have killed you and Amber too if he felt the need.” He shifted, as if contemplating an action and then rejecting the idea at the last second, “I know that there wasn’t any ill will there. It the nature of the game.”

That seemed to placate the monk. “To be honest,” he said quietly, “I’m not really angry with Drizzt anymore. For the reasons you gave… I just…” His lip curled in an angry snarl for a moment, angry at the first thought that came to his mind, “I don’t want to miss him anymore.”

The crease in Effron’s brow showed that he didn’t know how to respond to that statement.

“Oi!” The dwarves called in unison.

“Oh gods,” Afafrenfere, whose back was to the remaining two members of their group, smiled through the sadness on his face and shouted in with feigned distress, “they’ve merged into a single dwarf! It’s not long now before we will be dragging a giant rock around with us.”

A small stone came at the monk, who dodged out of the way, allowing the stone to nail Effron in his mangled shoulder and nearly knock him over.

“Sorry!”

Effron whimpered softly, doubling over and clutching at what was probably going to be a very nasty bruise and experienced a rare instance of thankfulness that his arm was missing, for if it had been attached and functional the blow might have rendered it useless.

“Are you okay?” Ambergris called.

“I’ll be fine,” the warlock groaned. “Just a little…”

All eyes turned to him when he trailed off, eyes locked on something away from the group. A dark elf, not too far from the two non-dwarves stood, holding the small projectile, tossing it in the air and chuckling softly. “That was one hell of a throw.” He called to Ambergris.

Three of the companions scrambled into defensive positions until Athrogate managed to holler over all of their noise, “He’s friendly, ye dolts. Settle down.” The attention turned to him, the dwarf crossed the room and shook the drow’s hand, “He’s one o’ Jarlaxle’s guys. Hoon.”

“Hune,” the elf corrected, “Valas Hune.” He bowed slightly, “Jarlaxle sent me to help you after the little catastrophe that happened last time.”

“Help us?” Ambergris snorted, “How?”

“Oh, a myriad of ways.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Jarlaxle slammed a hand down on the table more in desperation than in anger, “Gromph, I-“

“No,” the archmage was nearly shouting now, “You dug yourself into this hole you will have to lie in it.” He’d grown fed up with Jarlaxle and his bargaining the second time the younger drow had somehow managed to break into his office while he was away.

This was now the seventh time and Gromph was reaching the end of his fuse.

“It’s not as though I’m asking you to come with me,” Jaralxle argued. “You had no problem opening the door before.”

The mage took a deep, steadying breath, “I was young and brazen with my power back then, Jarlaxle. I made a mistake that day and I will not repeat it. You barely made it out with your life and I nearly threw Matron Mother Yvonnel into disfavor.” He shook his head against the half-formed arguments the younger drow attempted to throw at him, “I will not do it again and risk Quenthel’s reign.”

“I need to fix this,” was all Jarlaxle could say, “if I had been able to predict-“

“If you had _accepted things as they were,_ ” Gromph corrected, “this would not be a problem.”  He had not expected this to ever come up again and the fact that he had to listen to it every day was beginning to wear his patience thin; all he’d wanted was some peace and quiet to work in, but apparently that was too much to ask for. “I am not now, nor will I ever, repeat what we did nearly five hundred years ago. The War made things tentative enough, I do not need to add to it.”

The mercenary folded his arms and leaned against the desk. “I don’t have a lot of options here, Gromph. This is not something I can just go to any mage and expect them to give me aid in. I need _you._ You were there last time, you know what we did, and you are the only one I believe can help me undo it.”

“Then it would appear you have _no_ options,” the older elf replied, “because I will not do this thing. If Quenthel ever found out about what happened” he trailed off, not particularly thrilled with the thought.

Jarlaxle understood the anxiety. He knew that if any of the priestesses in Menzoberranzan found out about what they’d done all those years ago it would spell disaster for all parties involved; including the person he was trying to help. Defeated for now, the mercenary adjusted his hat, “Is there anyone you know that might be willing to take on such a task? Someone that can keep a secret.”

Gromph shook his head, “None that would not ask for your soul in return. Let it go, Jarlaxle. The boy will be dead soon anyway.” He met Jarlaxle’s worried confusion with a calm, passive stare, “Yes, she knows about the conditions and trying to be dealt more favorable cards.”

“How much time do I have?”

The mage shrugged, “I do not know, but you best act quickly if you feel the need to act at all.” He crossed the room and took a seat at his desk. “Now, get out. I have had enough of this conversation for one lifetime and I have certainly done you enough favors.” Jarlaxle tried to argue a bit more, but was cut off before he could even make a noise, “You have a visitor.”

“Can I expect your help in another matter?”

Gromph almost rolled his eyes, “It’s times like this I regret ever telling you the truth.” Jarlaxle smiled brightly and the mage gave him an exasperated sigh, “I should know better.”

“But you don’t and you like the gifts I bring you and I can use that to my advantage.”

“Damn you.” The two men would have laughed under better circumstances, but instead the archmage just waved the mercenary off threatening to forcefully remove the younger elf if he did not get some peace a quiet soon. “I will have to raise the price of my silence soon,” he grumbled when he was alone, “I’m too old for this.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Berellip narrowed her eyes at the figure coming to pass her. It was a rare occasion one of her fighters wandered the halls with a hood up. She slowed her pace, the cloak, patterned with sigil of her house drawn to cover the figure parted a bit, allowing the priestess to see a glimpse of the person beneath; female in form and draped in a dress of light colored, simple fabric, a pouch-laden, ornately embroidered belt cinched the loose dress above her hips, and the woman’s soft boots barely made a sound on the stone floor.

The priestess’s hand drifted to the snake-headed whip at her back.

The intruder obviously noticed the motion, walking faster toward and ultimately past the priestess. Berellip wasn’t about to be taken from behind, drawing the living weapon from the loop on her belt and spinning to face the vagrant using the momentum of her spin to add power to her swing.

But the woman had ducked low, almost flat to the floor, and whip flew harmlessly over her head; the snake’s fangs caught the fabric of her hood and pulled it loose, but couldn’t sink in to skin. Before Berellip could see the girl’s face she was slammed against the wall, the arm holding her weapon pinned between her body and the stone. Her snakes hissed angrily, their jaws clicking quietly as they lunged at her attacker. Berellip snapped her free elbow back, hitting empty air as her assailant danced away. The priestess whirled around, whip ready and swinging.

A bronze and iron fan knocked away the snakes. A second fan, closed, slashed at the priestess’s wrist like a dagger, tearing a bright red stripe across her flesh. The priestess growled low in her throat and lunged forward.

They danced about the tunnel for a short while; this short and slender intruder unfazed by Berellip’s offensive onslaught. The woman quickstepped backward, out of her range, even occasionally feigning exhaustion to bait the priestess into attacking and executing a quick counterattack, putting herself behind Berellip.

Eventually the strange woman grew tired of the game. She closed her fans, brandishing the strips of metal like a pair of daggers and fearlessly dove into the priestess, ducking below the swing of her weapon and driving her shoulder into the dark elf’s stomach sending them both to the ground. She slashed and stabbed at Berellip’s weapon arm until the snake whip finally flew free from her grip; the tiny fangs of her snakes tearing rents into the girls cloak, but not making it through to skin.

The priestess, not about to be taken down, struggled with the stranger, but couldn’t seem to get a hold on her. Berellip caught a laughing glint in the intruder’s gold eyes, dimmed and shadowed by the cowl of her cloak, her right eye darkened further by a stained sclera.

Things grew fuzzy for Berellip after that. When she recalled the fight later she would only remember the first blow to her temple, the sight of the stranger rising nearly to her feet followed immediately by a sudden breathlessness, and the scrape of stone beneath her nails before sinking into darkness, ashamed at how grossly she underestimated her opponent.

She woke to the choking odor of smelling salts and the burn of rope against her skin. It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the young elfin woman sitting across from her and another moment to realize that she was the same woman that had assaulted her. She was slight thing, dolled up and pretty-faced, not the image one associates with the attack Berellip had endured. The priestess rattled her brain for a moment and managed to piece together “What do you want?” in surface common.

“I want you to listen,” the elf replied in nearly flawless drow.

Berellip spat at the girl, “Listen to wha-“ She stopped short, a shadow on the corner of her vision stealing her train of thought.

Mind flayers. So that was how this little girl had bested her.

The drow narrowed her eyes, “What is this?”

_You will take a message to the leader of your complex,_ a voice said in her mind, _consider it a warning from my people to yours._

The elf stood, stepping behind the priestess. Berellip felt a sharp tug on her hair, pulling it tight and then suddenly disappearing. She winced as strands of white rained down in front of her, to land in her lap.

“What kind of message?”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Drizzt couldn’t remember the last time he’d used wooden weapons. He remembered using them during his training, and during his first sparring matches with Zaknafein but nothing beyond that. If he wanted to be honest, he’d say the most prominent memories he had with the finely crafted dark grey wood had to be those first sparring matches with his father; learning to be one with his weapons, steeling himself to danger and pain.

And the splinters, he remembered a great many splinters and the laughing fits Zak would have as the poor boy struggled to pull them out, stubbornly not asking for aid, even when he could not reach them. He’d been so happy when he finally earned metal weapons.

His jaw and throat tightened and his eyes burned slightly at the memory, but he swallowed the rogue wave of emotion with a deep breath and a pop of his neck.

The ranger tested the weight of his scimitars; they were lighter than what he was used too, but not unmanageable. He watched Andzrel do the same out of the corner of his eye with his weapon and smirked. The double ended sword was a very impractical weapon in Drizzt’s opinion, perhaps even more impractical as the technique embraced by the last Baenre weapon’s master he went up against.

He chuckled openly and stepped to the center of the room. The two men had acquired the training hall for what they told the guards was a testing of Drizzt’s new armor. Drizzt knew that wasn’t the case, but didn’t bother calling Andzrel out on the bluff. “Can we get on with this?” he teased, arching an eyebrow as the other drow approached.

“What? Suddenly feeling nervous?” the weapon’s master chided back.

“No,” Drizzt spun one of the swords in his hand, still getting used to its lightness, “I just wanted to get back to bedding your sister.” He smiled brightly at the glare Andzrel shot him, as if the other drow’s anger sustained him, “she is _insatiable._ ”

The weapon’s master took the bait and rushed him. Drizzt casually dodging the attack and retaliating with a ferocity that did not synch up with the calm he’d displayed only seconds before.

The fight lasted longer than Drizzt had expected it to, the weapon’s master holding his own even with his impractical weapon and fighting style. The Baenre was small and quick enough to maintain momentum and block, parry, and counter Drizzt’s attacks on both sides even when the ranger switched up his tactics and came in at strange and sometimes downright awkward angles.

Drizzt was enjoying the sport, even if the thrill of killing had been taken out of the equation. Unless, of course, he wanted to beat the man with a wooden sword until it broke and he could actually use it to kill. But that seemed like too much effort to waste on someone like this.

He felt something settle in his chest. The ranger knew it had nothing to do with the damage Andzrel was trying to inflict, or even with the exertion of the fight. It was an emptiness, a sudden and total severance from the tether that had brought him to consciousness. He was on his own now.

Drizzt laid into his opponent, knocking the weapon’s master back on his heels with the sudden onslaught. Andzrel raised his sword in defense, but it was laughable. The ranger, using one of his scimitars to keep the other drow blocking, spun to the weapon’s master’s back, hooking a heel to the man’s ankle as he passed and using his magically amplified speed to boost his momentum and knocking Andzrel forward with a solid elbow strike to his back when he was momentarily  off-balance. The weapon’s master did not fall, but he stumbled. Noticeably.

A loud pounding on the gym door and the call of guards for the Chosen to report to the Matron Mother stopped the fight short. “I fear, that is my cue to leave,” Drizzt laughed. He hung up his weapons and made his way to the door, “You’ll just have to accept defeat for now.”

Andzrel, unable to go after the Chosen for fear of angering someone whose opinion actually mattered to him, said nothing. He glared daggers at the ranger as he left, laughing openly as he passed through the doors. He would get a proper fight out of the ranger.

And the fight was a draw, if anything.


	9. Safety in Menzoberranzan

He took a special kind of gratification from the worry that permeated the air like motes of dust in the light. Whispers drifted down the halls about another Time of Troubles and recounting of harrowing events from that time. Arcane mages and psiconicists found themselves eyed warily and sometimes even followed down corridors by fighters and clerics, much to their confusion. Drizzt found the whole thing hilarious.

The only person who seemed to be handling the sudden loss of her goddess with any sort of poise was Quenthel; the matron confident in the power bestowed upon the Chosen. She was calm and neatly put together when she left her priestesses worriedly arguing in the anteroom to meet with her secret weapon on a balcony overlooking the city.

There was movement to the west and a little north, somewhere on the mantle wall. Drizzt saw it, leaning forward to see if he could make out what had happened, but it was simply too far away.

“That sort of thing happens all the time,” Quenthel said over his shoulder, “The west wall is still a bit unstable. Eventually we will be able to clear out the rubble.”

“That is terribly unsafe,” Drizzt noted, his smile wide and sinister.

She returned the expression. “Please, come in.”

Drizzt nodded, moving to follow and chancing a glance back at the softly glowing city. He could see nearly everything from the high balcony.

So much had changed about the city. It was denser, more people, more houses crammed into the cavern. What were once patches of darkness where now softly glowing houses, ornately constructed and biding their time until they could strike and rise up in the food chain. The sight left him feeling bitter and angry. Resentful of this place that had tried to force him to conform by taking everything from him and now demanded his help.

He remembered his early years, locked in a chapel and chased by a snake-headed whip. His time at Melee-Magthere forced to turn on young, inexperienced and largely untalented boys. His final days in this place, vengeful and angry destroying what little he could. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

Drizzt felt his lip curl in a snarl at the city. He remembered the threats they had sent to the people that mattered to him and his terrible choice of self-sacrifice for them. The torture he endured.

But it was the memory of Zaknafein that stung most.

Perhaps he would not help them after all. Perhaps he would throw the entire city out of the Spider Queen’s favor and let the Xorlarrins in Gauntlgrym run rampant. Or disrupt the entire balance of power in the city and finish what the war had started. Alliances be damned.

But that wasn’t what he was here for.

He had been chosen to serve a very specific purpose and was not about to let that purpose fall to the wayside for emotions that were no longer his own, but were shadows escaping from the crack below a prison door. The ranger shut them out, turning his back on the city and following the matron inside.

She stood in the center of her anteroom, waiting patiently for him to join her. He’d expected more priestesses here. “I need to know,” she said, “what the extent of your abilities is. What you would like me to tell the priestesses.”

Drizzt thought for a moment, encouraged by this opportunity. “Tell them,” he said, “that my power serves the bloodline of the Matron only.” He tossed her a casual smirk, “Weed out the traitors early.”

Quenthel nodded, “I’d planned something similar. What else?”

“That my being here is not a symbol of Lolth’s favor on your house over another,” he said after another moment, “it is simply the most convenient position to watch the city from. Should another house overtake yours I will go with them and watch over the council and the city from there.”

That had the Matron back on her heels. She obviously hadn’t known that.

“Oh,” he held up a hand to stop her from asking questions, “and tell them that should your house _be_ attacked I am not responsible to stand with them in combat. In fact, I will watch them be slaughtered if they are unprepared.”

Quenthel glared at him, “We’ve given you so much, and you would not stand with us should we need it.”

“If I recall correctly, _Quenthel_ ,” he said, putting a taunting emphasis on her name, and moving to exit the room, “the last time I was in Menzoberranzan, you were one of the priestesses Yvonnel sent to beat me within an inch of my life.” He smiled at her, a raised eyebrow begging her for a challenge. When none came he left the room and the seething Matron behind him.

He may not be able to get vengeance for all the crimes committed against him within the walls of the City of Spiders, but he would be sure that the few of his tormentors that were left living would regret their past choices.

As he made his way back to his quarters, Drizzt mused about what he’d opted not to tell her. Primarily that his role as the Spider Queen’s eyes and ears in Her absence meant that he could revoke the future favor of any Matron he felt necessary. Or that any Matron’s bloodline had their power restored while he was in the city, not just the one he resided beside.

He wondered how long it would take her to figure out.

-0-0-0-0-0-

It took the group a while to figure out how to get Artemis and Drizzt’s extra gear, as well as their own, into the Gauntlgrym tunnels. Eventually they recruited Hugo and employed Athrogate’s hellboar to get the task done in a single trip. The alcove Valas Hune had told them about was easy enough to find and store their things in as well as set up a small camp while Athrogate took Hugo back to the outskirts of Neverwinter.

“Ye guys’re pretty quick,” the dwarf laughed as he tucked the boar’s figurine into a pocket and took a seat beside Ambergris.

“How long do you think this will take?” Afafrenfere asked nervously and judging by the odd looks Effron and the cleric shot him, he’d asked the question before.

“Calm yerself boy,” the dwarf snorted, “even yer hair’s tense. Hune’s a scout, speed is his deal, and it shouldn’t take him long to find Kimmuriel in this place. We’ll be in and out before nightfall.”

Afafrenfere sat on the floor, but didn’t seem calmed by the news. Effron leaned over and tried to speak to him in a hushed voice, but only got an angry glare for his efforts at first.

“Somethin’ wrong with yer boy?” Athrogate asked, turning a quizzical look on Ambergris.

The cleric sighed, “It’s that illusion he saw. I dun think he’s quite shaken it off yet.” She ran a hand along her beard and added, “I think he’s fearin’ that it’ll happen again an’ it’ll get him killed, and he’s not ready for that.”

Athrogate pondered the thought for a moment, “Someone might have to be keepin an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t freeze up.”

Ambergris snorted, “Ye find the guy that can keep up with that one, we can make him do it. Til then, we’re just gonna have to make sure he calms down before yer guys arrive.” She turned to face him fully, “About these coalskins o’ yers. Can we trust ‘em?”

“’Bout as far as I can throw one,” the other dwarf replied, “an’ I can chuck Kimmuriel pretty far on a good day. _Bwahaha._ ” He sobered under Ambergris’s harsh gaze. She’d become so much more protective over the group after she almost lost them in Draygo’s castle. Loyalty was a handsome feature on the cleric, and refreshing to the dwarf who’d spent so much of his time surrounded by dark elves, mercenaries, and dark elf mercenaries. Athrogate smiled at her, “They’re good, well, they’re helpful. I’m sure they want to get this primordial thing under control as much as we do. Though whether or not Valas can actually be gettin’ us to the Moonwood ain’t certain.”

Effron and Afafrenfere began bickering under their breaths.

“Ah, young love,” Ambergris sighed, and the two dwarves shared around of snorting laughter muffled behind their hands and beards. Eventually they settled, “I hope Artemis can get Drizzt.” Ambergris’s face softened sadly. “I’m surprised he went without us.”

“Gettin’ into a dark elf city takes stealth,” Athrogate reassured her, “somethin’ we may not have, but Entreri’s got in spades. And the man is so stubborn even decades of slavery couldn’t beat the smartass out o’ him. I mean, I knew the man before Alegni an’ I see him after it, an’ if we’re bein’ honest, I don’t see a difference.” He scratched a spot on his chin, “If there is anyone in this world stubborn and stupid enough to steal from the Demon Queen o’ Spiders, it’s that guy.”

Ambergris laughed, “Ye have a lot o’ faith in this one man.”

“He’s got greatness in ‘im. I’ve seen it,” Athrogate replied. “An’ I’ve got faith that Drizzt’ll get back to hisself and the two will be able to cut a burnin’ swath out of the place an’ come back to us.” He draped an arm around the cleric and pulled her close in a hug, “Drizzt’s got greatness in ‘im too. Together they could probably do just about anything. The only thing that might prove to be a problem is if Jarlaxle puts his big-ass hat in the ring.”

Ambergris chuckled despite herself, “How big of a problem?”

“Jarlaxle-sized.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Jarlaxle wants them ready in Menzoberranzan-“

“I don’t care what he wants,” Saribel growled, “Matron Mother Zeerith commissioned those men, they will remain here.”

“Actually,” Kimmuriel raised a hand, “the men that are leaving were commissioned by Matron Baenre to aid in the expedition. If she chooses to send them back, they will return, but until then they are needed in Menzoberranzan. They will be feeling the absence of clerical magic more potently there and we have to make sure the city doesn’t destroy itself.”

Saribel growled angrily, “And if this place falls apart what then?”

Kimmuriel shrugged his shoulders about to answer when Berellip Xorlarrin burst through the door behind him and ran up to his side. Her breath came in short gasps and her eyes were wide, trained on her sister. Kimmuriel cocked his head to the side, “Nice haircut.”

Her snowy white hair hung jagged and uneven about her ears, parts too short to be tucked back and brushing against her cheekbones. “You’re still here?” she snarled. Berellip turned to her sister, “There are illithids in the tunnels.”

“What?” Kimmuriel laughed.

Saribel did not find the news so funny, “Are you sure?”

“One of them took me hostage,” she growled, pointing to her head, “It had its slave girl do this to me.” She rounded on Kimmuriel, “And I think I know who tipped them off.”

“I’ve been with Saribel this whole day,” Kimmuriel defended, “I’ve been getting the Bregan D’aerthe’s men ready to leave for Menzoberranzan. I have not seen or spoken to any illithids.”

“Wait,” when it didn’t seem that Berellip could grow any angrier, the priestess surprised everyone, “the mercenaries are _leaving?_ ”

“Clerical magic is gone,” Saribel told her, “the Spider Queen has left us to fend for ourselves yet again.”

“And the mercenaries are going back to maintain some semblance of order until this time passes,” Kimmuriel added, “What good is a sister city if Menzoberranzan destroys itself?”

Berellip only snarled at him, still thinking the male responsible for her encounter with the illithid and its slave. “The creature said that Oryndoll has designs on Gauntlgrym. They don’t want to take it, just harvest it for information and leave it for whoever wants it. It said that if we do anything that can be considered a direct cause of its destruction they will see it as a hostile action.”

Saribel sighed , “You can’t be serious.”

“They _beat me into submission and cut off my hair_. Of course I’m serious.”

Kimmuriel slowly backed his way out of the room, “I’ll see if I can’t find this creature or its kin and reason with them. At least to buy us some time until we can figure out something to do about the primordial. I caution you to tread lightly until then.”

Saribel looked pointedly at him, “You do that.” She knew that if the mind flayers were going to listen to anyone, it would be Kimmuriel Oblodra. “And be quick.”

When he was gone, Berellip turned to her sister, “I think he brought them here. I think this is some sort of plan for the Bregan D’aerthe to take over Gauntlgrym.” She shuffled about angrily, “Maybe Tiago’s in on this too. Hells, it could be the Baenres-“

“Berellip,” Saribel interrupted, exhaustion starting to ring in her voice, “shut your mouth.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

She allowed him into her private chambers when he knocked. Andrzel had known something was wrong, but didn’t realize it was _this_ wrong. The Matron was sitting at a table, nursing a glass of wine and watching the half-empty bottle beside her as though it would sprout legs and walk away if she took her eyes off it for a moment. “Sit,” she said pointing to a chair across from her.

The weapons master took the seat.

“You’re here about your sister,” she said, “I’ll have you know that she volunteered for the position.”

Andrzel scoffed. “There must be something in it for her,” he added quickly to cover it up, “She doesn’t do anything just for the good of the house.”

“Lolth’s power,” Qunethel said quietly, “runs in bloodlines. In families. Her favor is passed from mothers to daughters.”

Andrzel narrowed his eyes, “I don’t understand. What does that have to do-“

“Our scholars believe that Lolth picked her Chosen at random when the last one was killed. With Her gone,” Quenthel took a sip of her drink, “the random Choosing can’t happen.”

It all clicked then. “I understand, Matron.”

“Then you also understand what I want you to be ready for when I give the word,” she said. “I want you prepared for that. It will come soon and it will come quickly, and I do not want you to fail me like so many other hopefuls and masters have.” She swirled her wine in her glass. “I will be forced to take drastic measures if you do. Is that clear?”

Andrzel nodded, “Yes, Matron. Most clear.”

“You are dismissed.”

He rose from his chair and left the room without a sound. Andrzel wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the arrangement, particularly under these circumstances. The threat that Matron Quenthel held over his head was serious and he was sure a similar threat had been held over his sister despite the Matron’s assertion to her volunteering.

Andrzel took a detour to the training hall, hoping to get in a little extra training before being called away for other tasks. When the time came for action, he was determined that he would be ready for it.

Drizzt Do’Urden was not an opponent to be underestimated.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Artemis had taken a gamble asking Effron to send him to a tunnel just outside the western side of the city instead of straight into the Clawrift, but it seemed that gamble had paid off. Though it took some climbing, the long-abandoned building he had heard about from Jarlaxle’s meetings with his men all those years ago came into his sights. It was blocked mostly, by stone fallen long ago as the cave the house had been built into came down around it, or so the scouts had said when they’d returned to their headquarters and reported the building and all the supplies it could have still held lost to everyone. For years Artemis had wondered if Jarlaxle had caved in the house on purpose, simply because he could, but even now he couldn’t prove the assumption.

He’d thought of the place often, wondering why Jarlaxle had been so interested in it and so avoidant to questions he’d asked when they travelled together on the way to Vaasa. It was as if Jarlaxle had wanted the place to keep and if not he wanted to forget it ever existed and even got touchy when the subject was breeched like it was some big secret. Even after Alegni had changed his name Artemis wondered what this house in the west wall held for Jarlaxle, and on more than one occasion requested an opportunity to go down and see if he could find something he could blackmail the drow into setting him free with. Every time he was denied.

He was right in choosing the place, there was no movement as far as his eyes could see anywhere near the rubble. Apparently salvage efforts had either proved too pointless or too dangerous to be worth it so the other drow houses had simply built around the debris. It looked as if he wouldn’t have to worry too much about being stumbled upon by drow, Bregan D’aerthe or otherwise.

The assassin slid down a steeply inclined pillar of stone caught on a balcony protruding from the southeastern portion of the house, several stones beneath the balcony helped it bear the pillar’s weight, but Entreri felt it loosen as soon as his feet touched it. By the time he reached the halfway point he was forced to sprint to the balcony to avoid falling with the stones. The crash made a terrible noise and he was sure someone had seen it, and the portion of the cave wall it tore down with it, fall.

Quickly, he ducked inside, hoping that it would just be attributed to the dangerous nature of the ruin and not any sort of intruder. After straining his ears for some time, Artemis deemed that he wasn’t going to be followed for a while and took a look around.

The room he’d ended up in was a relatively small, open chamber that looked a great deal like a tactics room from one of the many guildhouses he’d inhabited over his extended lifetime. Scrolls, presumably containing maps sat on shelves, but crumbled to nothing in Artemis’s hands when he attempted to look at them. He sighed, having not expected to find anything here in the first place made the loss of potentially inaccurate maps a bit less depressing.

The assassin tested the only door and found that it was, surprisingly, open and unblocked.

The door led him to a large, open room with a high ceiling. The darkness was like dark water, threatening to swallow him whole. It reminded him of his first trip into the Underdark and its heart-stopping blackness. Even for a man that lived his life in the deepest shadows the night had to offer, a cold chill took hold in that darkness. Artemis clenched his fists to stop the stubborn trembling in his hands and cursed the vividness of his memory.

Why was he here? Why did he come back to this place of darkness and servitude and evil? He tried to tell himself it was because Catti-brie Battlehammer had demanded it of him, or that the dark elves shouldn’t be allowed to have Drizzt Do’Urden in their clutches to use for evil. He knew it wasn’t true though. At the end of the day, Artemis Entreri’s problems revolved around himself and he could have just written all of this off as beyond his control and gone home to retire comfortably and be done.

And, yet, here he was, staring into blackness in a place that had shown him nothing but hardship and misery.

He closed his eyes, the blackness behind the lids somehow more comforting than that before him, and took several deep, calming breaths trying to get the stinging wave of emotion under control. He was better than this, stronger than this, and yet the urge to fall to his knees, to find somewhere to hide until all this had passed was strong in him.

Hiding had not worked when he was a child, he told himself, and it certainly would not work now.

Artemis tried to remind himself what this was all for, what saving Drizzt would mean, but it wasn’t working. The assassin just did not have it in him to care about something that should not have been his problem in the first place. Let the drow kill each other over Drizzt. Let the Spider Queen take the damned ranger if she wanted him so badly. She would only try again once the meeting of the gods was over anyway.

Not getting anywhere in the purpose department, Entreri tried another tactic to calm his rattled nerves. He pushed the painful memories of Menzoberranzan aside in favor of better ones. A pair of willowy arms wrapped around him, the soft brush of hair against his cheek. “What’s wrong?” the voice barely more than a whisper in his thoughts. A gentle hand brushed through his hair to soothe him and coax him to talk. Purple eyes watching him amidst a mask of worry and soft spoken promises of help.

He felt comfortable there.

When the assassin opened his eyes again to the blackness, it felt more like a wall than a void and he supposed that was something of an improvement. He laughed quietly, hearing the sound echo off bare walls. Funny how the thought of Do’Urden’s perpetual concern could calm him more than taking power from the women that had so subjugated him in the past.

He was getting soft, he knew, and it left him feeling a little nauseous. But a resolve took hold of him as well, in that moment, stilling the nervous shaking in his hands. The dark elves had been responsible for so much of his torment; they enslaved him, used him and treated him like a pet, had promised him great things and instead stole his freedom as payment, they even made his shadows, the places he’d felt safest his whole life, places of danger. Artemis Entreri vowed in that moment, alone and staring sternly in the dark, that he would be damned if he let these wretched creatures take anything else from him without a fight.

The assassin took a deep, steadying breath and stepped into the darkness, closing the door behind him and leaning heavily against it.

The deep blackness was almost too much for the assassin’s darkvision, but after a moment he realized that it wasn’t the dark, merely the size of the room. It was a sprawling hall with a high ceiling and doors on either side of him. Bits of rubble littered the smooth floor, and chunks of the ceiling were missing or pierced by stones.  Entreri followed the wall to the north door, only to find it littered with complex locks, some rusting and probably stuck fast. He knocked on the door once, listening closely and resolving not to waste his time on a blocked door’s locks.

He crossed the room; this time testing the floor for weak spots and anything that could potentially be turned into a trap should his temporary hiding place be found out. As he progressed he noticed parts of the floor were tinted darker than the rest, some investigating and he figured out it was just an ornate design in the floor not some trap; a spider holding a different weapon at the end of each of his legs, probably the symbol of the house. There were a few weak spots he found and made note of, but they weren’t anywhere particularly advantageous.

The south door didn’t sport any locks at all and swung open easily when Entreri touched it with a soft creak of its hinges. It was a small private chamber. A desk stood to one side, it surface not sporting much but a few parchment sheets of no particular interest and a covered something the assassin was reluctant to uncover. When he was sure whatever was under the shade wasn’t alive or otherwise dangerous, he lifted it.

The ceramic globe beneath the shade bathed the room in dim, yellow light.

“It’s a lamp?” Artemis couldn’t help himself from scoffing, “They make lamps here? I wish I could have gotten one of these.”

Able to see with his normal vision and not suffer the magic-induced headaches of prolonged darkvision use in person that was not meant to have it, Entreri finished his surveillance of the room. Other than the desk there was not much; a large, cushioned bed, a few end tables, and a small wardrobe.

He collapsed heavily on the bed, expecting a huge cloud of dust to cover him and make him regret the action. None came. Confused, he shot up and checked the rest of the furniture in the room; all of it was covered in a fine grey dust, probably from the stone, which left the assassin even more confused.

Why was the bed not dusty?

Was someone keeping it?

He checked the floor, but found no hint that anyone other than himself had been in this room in ages. “Odd…”

Too tired from his trek through the Underdark to worry about what kind of ghost changed bed linens, he collapsed back on the bed. It had been a long walk from where Effron had placed him, and he counted himself lucky to have a comfortable bed readily available. However, Artemis couldn’t relax enough with the thought of a potential, unwanted visitor in his mind and dipped a hand into his pocket, pulling forth the two trinkets and tossing them on the bed beside him. After a moment to untangle them, he slipped the metal whistle back into his pocket and tossed the little stone figurine on the floor.

Guenhwyvar looked about for a moment, somewhat confused about her location. Eventually she turned to Entreri and dropped the blade and scabbard she was holding beside him. She stared at him, green eyes wide and expectant.

Artemis sat up fully and stared back at her. “We still have a way to go,” he said softly, “but we are close. He may yet be saved.” The panther rested her head on the human’s leg, offering a comfort of her own.  “Stay,” he commanded, but made it sound more like a request, “keep watch. I’ve come a long way, and it may not be safe here.”

Guenhwyvar, understanding, sank to the floor, her body resting but her ears alert.

The assassin picked up the blade, drawing it from its scabbard as he did so. The bright, angry red vein stared back at him where the dwarven runes used to be and he could feel the magic radiating off of it. He slid it back into place, laughing to himself when he saw the dent of Guen’s teeth marks in the leather of the scabbard.

He laid back against the cushions, comforted by the soft hum of the panther’s breathing at his side and the dim light from the glow on the desk and managed to slip into a deep, much needed sleep.


	10. Purity of the Soul

Valas slowed his jog to a walk for several strides before stopping altogether at the mouth of the small cavern. Kimmuriel was here, just like he should be, but was already engaged with allies of his own. Interested, Valas crept up in the shadows, trying to snag what bits of conversation he could between the psionicist and his two strange visitors; one a mind flayer, the other concealed by a heavy cloak.

“She got the message,” Oblodra was saying to the small hooded figure before him, “but I’m not sure if that’ll be enough on such short notice.”

A low, lyrical voice replied as the shorter figure removed her cloak, “It better be enough. I’m not going up against her again. She’ll be on to me next time.” The slight elfin woman folded the cloak and passed it over to Kimmuriel, “People only underestimate me once.”

There was a short pause among the three of them before a quiet shared laugh erupted between them.

“Fair enough,” the psionicist said, turning his focus to the girl, “I may need you to fight some more dark elves, you think you can handle it?”

“As long as I don’t have to put up with whips, we should be fine,” the surface elf replied. Another long pause, she turned to the illithid and nodded politely, “yes, master.”

With a wave of its four fingered hand it ushered the elf beside it and they two quickly departed. Once they were well out of the scout’s sight, Valas made his presence known.

“That was interesting,” he said with a smirk.

Kimmuriel scowled at him, “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” Valas shrugged, “Who were those two?”

“The illithid, Razlaould and its champion,” the other drow replied with a shrug, “they intend to aid us and Do’Urden’s group of misfits.” He snapped his fingers, “Speaking of which, I’m assuming by your presence that they’re here.”

The scout nodded, “They’re in the alcove waiting for my word.”

“I am surprised you did not just bring them in.”

Valas folded his arms across his chest, “I wanted to get your input on all this before I lead a pair of dwarves and their pet children into the monster’s den.”

Kimmuriel laughed, “Finally, someone wants my input.” The psionicist sighed, “We can’t stay here. The priestesses are turning paranoid in the absence of their magic, it won’t be long before they turn on us, whether they know of our involvement or not.” He paused, taking a deep, steadying breath before adding, “I also have the feeling Jarlaxle is about to do something immensely stupid.”

“When doesn’t he?” Valas scoffed.

“Someone who understands,” Kimmuriel sighed, “Bring them in, we’ll follow them wherever they run to and get back to Menzoberranzan from there. My magic still works for now, best to utilize it.”

The scout bowed his head, turned on his heel, and began jogging back the way he’d come. After a few steps he stopped, turned on his heel and asked, “That girl with the mind flayer, she was a _champion?_ ”

Kimmuriel nodded, “I was surprised too, but she’s no pushover. Wait until you see what she did to Berellip’s hair.”

Valas couldn’t fight the smirk tugging on the corner of his mouth, “I’m holding my breath.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Fire. It started on the edges of his vision, a hazy mist of orange growing in brightness and intensity. He felt an ache and stiffness in his shoulders and wrists, a burning in his back, and a pounding in his head. The image before him sharpened for a moment; an enormous spider web suspended over a great burning chasm, a temple carved into the cliffs and beyond that a forest of burning trees. He heard the scurrying of large sinister creatures around him. He didn’t get much of a chance to look around, as his vision blurred again to black.

Drizzt jolted awake in his chair, nearly tumbling out of it. He yawned and tried to look bored in an attempt to make the action look intentional when the Matron Mother turned her eyes to him. “Yes?”

“Are we boring you, Master Do’Urden?” Quenthel asked, eyes narrowed.

The ranger rested his chin in his hand and leaned heavily against it, “I have told you already, Matron: The affairs of your house are no concern of mine. I would like to return to my chambers instead of sitting pretty in a chapel.” His gaze lifted to the ceiling, “Really the only thing I want to do with these places is destroy them.”

When his gaze returned to Quenthel, she was still staring at him. “For a Chosen you do not seem to want much to do with your goddess,” she said, no small about of bitterness in her tone.

“People practice their devotion in different ways,” Drizzt laughed, rising from his chair, “just because I do not like to sit in front of an altar making blood sacrifices like you do, does not make me wrong.” He took a few steps away before turning around and adding, “It does not make me right either. If you need me I’ll be in my chambers.” With that, the ranger started away, soft leather boots making barely a sound as he passed among the priestesses.

He caught a look at Andrzel as he glided across the polished stone floor and out of the chapel. The weapon’s master did not bear the same nearly enraged visage he had the day before. Initially, Drizzt thought he saw a calm resignation to his fate, but spotted the smug smirk on the other man’s lips right as the great doors shut behind him.

That wasn’t good.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“How do you handle it?” it was a soft question, barely more than a whisper across his skin.

“Handle what?” he asked and felt Drizzt flinch at his side, obviously not expecting to be heard.

The ranger hesitated, tracing swirling patterns in his bedmate’s skin in an effort to distract himself from the line of conversation he’d started. He shifted at the human’s side, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t involve actually having to look at the other man before saying, “Being alone. You’ve spent most of your life that way; I can’t understand how you can bare it.”

Artemis laughed, “Though a man walks without allies, he is never truly alone.”

Drizzt lifted his head from the human’s chest and turned on him, “What?” The look on his face nearly sent the other man into a fit of laughter, “What does that mean?”

Entreri reached up and tucked a rogue lock of white hair behind the ranger’s ear, “My mentor used to say it. You know, before I killed him.” The smug grin on his face widened, “He always said weird things like that. Pretty much everything had the same theme of: no matter where you go, or what happens, or who meet or lose, the specter of death will always be with you, and that you shouldn’t fear its presence but embrace it.”

“Because death wants to be your friend,” Drizzt grumbled laying his head back down, “That is why it steals precious things from you.”

Another laugh from the assassin, “You think about death so selfishly, Drizzt.” The comment earned him a scornful glare from the ranger, “You think about what the death of others means for _you_. Not for the person who died. Death is not an inherently bad thing to the person who is ill, who is starving, who is wounded, in fact it is a blessing.”

“I suppose,” Drizzt sounded reluctant to accept the idea, but didn’t have a witty argument to shoot back at the human. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“I walk with the specter of death at my side,” Entreri said, still managing to keep his tone light, “I am never truly alone.”

“Only you would find comfort in the company of death.” The ranger growled, a bitterness in his tone.

Artemis flicked the elf’s sharply pointed ear. “You do it too,” he chided when Drizzt whirled around at him, “You are just more reluctant to admit it. You place yourself in death’s company more often than you want to admit to yourself and one day you will find yourself unable to turn your back on it so callously.”

Drizzt’s scowl lessened, “And what will happen then?”

Artemis smiled at him gently, “It depends on how you greet him.”

A puff of damp air against his cheek startled him awake before he could hear the ranger’s response. It took him a moment to reorient himself to the dimly lit surroundings; he’d expected to be back in Port Llast, all of this awfulness having just been a product of his own bleak imagination. A chill settled in his blood as he realized that wasn’t the case.

It was all real, and he had no plan to handle this.

Guen was watching him from the edge of the bed, expectant stare eventually gaining his attention. With a sigh, Artemis dismissed her, knowing her magic was about to run out soon anyway. When the smoke cleared he bent to pick up the figurine, rising from the bed as he straightened.

The silence was almost deafening.

He laughed quietly to himself, for the first time in a long while he was back to his original place in the world; quietly plotting, hidden in the shadows, alone but for the specter of death looming over his shoulder. The assassin felt like himself again, like the man he’d been before Drizzt Do’Urden, and Jarlaxle, and all this hero business.

It made him feel as though his blood had thickened.

Artemis slipped the figurine into his pocket and slung the scimitar over his shoulder, the collar of his cloak and his sword belt keeping it in place. It was awkward, and he’d have to figure out a better way to carry the weapon, but it served its purpose for the time being.

Not wanting to linger uselessly, the assassin collected the ceramic sphere and its shade and stepped back out into the hall. The large, flat surface of the hall’s floor would serve as decent place to start drawing up a plan; his knowledge of the Baenre complex was hazy, his memories decades old and blurred from lack of use. What he could make out of the complex from the balcony wasn’t much help either, too great a distance in the dim light for him to be able to make out anything but grandiose spires and domes of the ancient and elaborately built house.

“This,” The assassin sighed, heavily against the door as it shut solidly behind him “is going to be a-”

His breath caught in his throat at the sound of clacking footsteps just outside the door.

Fantastic.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

She could hear screaming, and awful, echoing screech of mixed tones and something she felt more than heard. Her chest tightened and tears rimmed her eyes despite her best efforts to stay passive.

“This is it,” Regis sighed beside her.

The border, the very edge of the hellish plane, stared back at them. Catti-Brie took a deep steadying breath, “Let’s go.” Regis nodded in agreement, taking a few quick steps and crossing the line before she did. Or, rather, tried to, but she was stopped by an irresistible force and a blinding pain. She fell away from the wall, startled and shaky, aiming a confused look at the halfling.

Regis only made a face at her, not amused but not alarmed over the turn of events either. “I expected as much,” he said after a moment.

“What-“ the woman took a moment to straighten herself, “I don’t understand.”

“Cat,” the halfling was almost reluctant to speak, but forced himself to, “this is a _hell_ plane. It’s meant for the damned, not the virtuous.” He ran a nervous hand across the back of his neck, “Your soul is too pure to enter.”

“What?” Catti-Brie growled.

“You’ve never been evil,” Regis said with a weak laugh, “You’ve never been forced to make a decision that could be seen as evil, or have to choose between evils. I don’t know why, but it might have something to do with your position as Chosen.” He shrugged, “Mielikki must have wanted to keep you pure so you couldn’t be stolen away. You know, like Wulfgar. Or maybe fate just likes to spare some people, I dunno.”

The woman chewed her lip in frustration. “So how can you pass? Most of what you did in life involved… not being involved.” The statement sounded less bitter in her head.

The halfling took it in stride, “Cat, honey. There’s a _reason_ Pasha Pook sent someone of Artemis Entreri’s caliber to hunt me down and not some expendable assassin.” His nervous smile turned wicked for a brief moment, almost too quick for her to catch, “And Pook didn’t know what kind of friends I had.”

Catti-Brie blinked at her companion dumbly for a moment, realizing that she knew nothing of the halfling’s life before his retirement in Icewind Dale. “But-“

“Lolth had Drizzt from the start,” Regis reminded her, stepping backward as he did so, “and someone needed to be able to go after him.” He turned about on his heel and surveyed his surroundings, “It’s alarming,” he shuddered, “to know I was almost destined for something like this. I have to remember to thank Drizzt when I find him.”

Before Catti-Brie could say anything, he was off. Instead she just stared where the halfling had once stood and whispered, “Who are you?”

-0-0-0-0-0-

They were sitting not too far away, but far enough to be out of earshot of their dwarven companions. The two men spoke in quiet voices, and occasionally stopped to close their eyes and breathe deeply a few times.

“What’re they doin’?”

Ambergris started awake at his side. She blinked sleepily at the pair across from them, a single, dark eyebrow rising curiously, “Looks like breathing exercises.” She settled back into her comfortable position, “Aff says they calm the nerves an’ focus the mind or some other hooey.”

“Exercises,” Athrogate echoed, confused, “fer breathing? Like they need to practice breathin’?” He laughed, “Leave it to the tall ones to forget how to breathe.”

Ambergris elbowed him in the side, “It’s some fancy type of breathin’, ye dolt. I’ve done it before. It kinda works.”

“Bah,” the other dwarf scoffed, “I dun care whether it works or not, they look like damn fools doin’ it.” He gestured to them as though that somehow added to the show “Look at this.”

Ambergris had to admit they did look kind of silly. “Whatever keeps ‘em focused,” she said with a shrug, settling in closer to him, “they’re less likely to be gettin’ themselves killed that way.” When Athrogate made a questioning noise beside her, she explained, “They’re a talented pair. Aff can hold his own with the best of ‘em and Effron’s actually not the complete moron I originally thought he was. But the two are goddamn princesses when it comes to emotion.”

“That sounds like a right pain in the ass.”

She turned to her companion and took him by his braided beard, “Ye have _no idea._ ”

The two dwarves shared a hearty laugh before settling down with each other again. Athrogate pulled the priest in as she straightened herself from being doubled over with laughter, ruffled her messy hair, and planted a kiss on her temple, “Ye know, I dun think they’d miss us too much if we…went somewhere.”

Ambergris made a curious noise, “An’ what would we do when we got to that ‘somewhere’?”

“Maybe ye can show me what,” he shot a pointed look to the holy symbol hanging from her neck, “secrets ye have hidden under yer mountain.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows suggestively.

The cleric pressed the heel of her hand under Athrogate’s bearded jaw and pushed him up and away, “I love yer sense o’ humor and all, but that was awful.”

“That was _gold_ and ye know it.”

The two dwarves exchanged light blows and attempted to wrestle each other into submission. Ultimately Ambergris won out, pinning her man to the floor and sitting on his back. “Gold is overrated,” she laughed victoriously. Athrogate only made a loud huffing noise in response, attempting to dislodge the female from her seat of power.

The moment of levity was short lived though, Effron and Afafrenfere had stopped their ridiculous-looking breathing ritual and were staring at something in the shadows. Some squinting and Ambergris could make out a slender form. “Hey,” she smacked Athrogate across the back of the head to get him to stop struggling, “The elf’s here. Get yer things.”

“We _will_ settle this later,” Athrogate coughed when the cleric jumped from her seat to pick up her weapon.

“I’m lookin’ forward to it,” she replied with a coy lilt to her rough voice.

Valas informed them of the route they would be taking both into and out of the complex once the conflict was over. The elf warned them that while their allies had lessened their burden, they would probably still have to fight their way through the complex. Kimmuriel may have presented the Xorlarrin priestesses with a convincing argument, but drow women were not renowned for their compliance.

A wave of relief seemed to wash over Afafrenfere and Effron. “At least there are less of them,” Effron said, casting a sidelong look to the monk, “the odds are closer to even this time.”

Athrogate snorted loudly, “Bah, the odds were even last time.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Jarlaxle barely listened as his mercenaries parroted back the orders he’d given them. Gromph’s mention of a visitor had him scouring the entire complex for vagabonds and stowaways. He had initially thought that Drizzt had come to the headquarters either to confront him, or back into himself enough that he needed a way out of the city before the priestesses caught on.

But, aside from his normal line up of mercenaries, apprentices, and the occasional merchant or noble paying for protection, the Bregan D’aerthe was empty.

As much as Jarlaxle enjoyed his brother’s cryptic nature and the hilarious results of his riddle-laden speech on the unsuspecting fighter or run-of-the-mill idiot, now was not a good time for him.

The mercenary leader retired to his quarters shortly after dismissing his men to go about the tasks he’d laid out for them. Getting Drizzt out of Quenthel’s grip was going to be difficult, particularly if Gromph wasn’t going to help him stop the growth of this weed that was the Chosen of Lolth at the root. He’d have to figure out some way to get Drizzt back to himself and spirit him out of the city. But how?

He deeply regretted not getting a better consultation from Kimmuriel on the state of Drizzt’s madness. But the psionicist had only gotten a cursory glance at the ranger’s mind and refused to advise Jarlaxle to do something rash. “I don’t want you cutting a man’s leg off at the hip to find out only his foot was injured afterward,” Kimmuriel had said, “The mind is a complicated instrument,  one slight nudge and he can either get better, horribly worse, or die, and the odds are not in your favor.”

Oblodra had continued to offer that if Jarlaxle could bring Drizzt to him, he might be able to get a better idea of how to remedy the affliction or, at the very least, treat it until the flow of Lolth’s influence could be cut off.

Jarlaxle ran a hand over his face as he fell back against the large, cushioned bed that dominated his bedchamber. Taking someone like Drizzt Do’Urden anywhere without his consent was a challenge, but if the Baenres were backing him, getting him out of their house, much less city would prove to be a serious problem. It could spell disaster for the guild.

He would have to get him alone, without the priestesses hovering around him, or a gaggle of fighters at his beck and call. Jarlaxle nearly laughed at himself for the notion, Quenthel wouldn’t let Drizzt go anywhere without an escort, she wasn’t that stupid. The ranger would have to sneak out and go somewhere.

Jarlaxle actually did laugh at himself that time, where in Menzoberranzan would Drizzt Do’Urden actually want to go without an armed escort?

When it hit him, Jarlaxle found himself reminded of a time he’d had too much to drink and Athrogate sat on him to get him out of bed; jarring and painful and it left him more than a little queasy.

_You have a visitor._

The mercenary leader rose from his bed and prepared himself for a trek across the city.


	11. Third Time's the Charm

It was quiet. An eerie, fearful quiet that filled the tunnels with an imagined sound not unlike rushing water when their footsteps came to a stop at an intersection or slowed to silence as Valas Hune tried to pick the best route to the forge chamber; a thick quiet that rested in the dark, laden with the purpose of masking something sinister and maddening rolling just beyond the reach of their senses.

Something was waiting for them, and it didn’t take them very long to figure out what.

The forge chamber was filled to bursting with troops some drow, but most typical slave-fodder: goblins, kobolds, and the occasional bugbear. At their head, standing before the troops ready to greet them, stood a priestess in full armor, arms crossed.

Valas addressed her directly, stepping out from the group. His tone as he spoke was tense, but not angry; a sense of urgency.

“What’re they sayin’?” Ambergris asked, nudging Athrogate’s shoulder. The others in their group looked at him with the same expectance as the cleric.

Athrogate shrugged and whispered “I dunno. I only know a few phrases in their silly language and most of them are ‘where’s the beer’ and ‘talk to the other guy’”

 The group of four listened to the two dark elves argue in progressively more aggressive tones for several nervous moments. The sounds of hand crossbows knocking behind them turned their attention to the tunnel, now laden with archers and expendable creatures. Valas barked something at the priestess, who only laughed and gave him a smooth, calm response. A few moments of silence passed.

“Ye gonna translate,” Athrogate grumbled, elbowing the elf in the hip.

“She says this is the army of house Xorlarrin,” Valas said tersely, “That she knows about an artifact you all intend to use to stop the primordial and that she will pry it from your cooling corpses and do it herself. I tried to convince her that she had no idea how to use it,” He took a few steps back and to the side, edging his way out of the group, “but she does not care. Looks like you’ll have to fight your way through.”

Afafrenfere took him by the arm, “And where do you think you’re going?”

Valas pried the hand from his limb, “To get a head start on plan B.” With that he turned, dodging the quick volley of crossbow bolts that came at him and disappeared beyond the troops and into the tunnels.

“Damn elves,” the dwarves growled in unison, brandishing their weapons as the expendable slaves began closing in at the barked orders of their drow masters.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Nana tied a small strip of leather at the end of her long braid before turning to face Oblodra. “Took you long enough,” she said calmly, her low voice nearly drowned out by the rising sounds of combat, “What is this?”

Kimmuriel sighed, looking between the elf and her master. “Saribel does not want to be in the debt of surfacers,” he explained, “She’ll take what she needs from them and take the glory of saving Gauntlgrym for herself.”

“She would have all of Gauntlgrym destroyed for the sake of her racism,” Nana laughed, “that sounds oddly familiar…” Razlaould flicked her sharply on the ear, causing her to flinch and the girl instantly apologized for the statement. “Should I go down there now or wait?” she asked.

“Wait,” Kimmuriel said, “Make it look like it took time for you to get word. Do’Urden’s companions can handle the fight for a while, and that may be enough. Threatening the wrath of Oryndoll may not even be necessary.”

Razlaould offered a curt nod of agreement, resting a steadying hand on the girl’s shoulder. She turned to the creature, attentive, listening to silent instructions. When they were finished, Nana seated herself on the edge of the outcropping, hidden in the shadows, watching the progression of the fight. Her expression grew bored quickly.

_She itches for a fight,_ Kimmuriel noted silently, not wanting to arouse the ire of the champion.

The illithid shook its head. _Not exactly._

Kimmuriel nearly laughed aloud, judging by the way the elf carried herself that wasn’t the case.

“Please tell me we have a back-up plan,” Valas’s voice surprised all of them. They hadn’t expected him to find them so soon, “Those four won’t survive against the army Saribel’s cooked up.” He swept past them and leaned out of the small outcropping to get a better look, “Where did she find these people?”

“I have no idea, but it’s irrelevant,” Kimmuriel said, tugging Valas back into the shadows. “And yes, we have another plan to get them to see our point.”

Hune turned his gaze on the creature towering over the three of them, “Let me guess.”

The creature’s head tilted to the side briefly before returning its gaze to the fight unfolding below.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Drizzt wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in the dungeon, but he wasn’t surprised to be there. It was the only place in the Baenre complex that he knew well and felt familiar and since his arrival he’d felt drawn there. Only after another meeting with the priestesses did he finally get the opportunity; no one hovering around him, bombarding him with questions or offers of favors in exchange for power he either could or would not give them.

Prisoners rattled their chains, slinking away from him whenever he came too close to their cells. Drizzt wasn’t sure if it was the official-looking armor, the Baenre insignia on his cloak, or just the aura around him that made them so fearful, and he didn’t really care; he just liked the reaction.

“Fancy seeing you down here,” a smug voice called behind him.

Drizzt swore quietly. He’d wanted to be left alone, just for a little while, but apparently that was too much for someone in his position to ask. “What do you want?” he snarled, running a hand over his face and not turning to face Andrzel. “I did not ask for company.”

“I never pegged you as the type,” Andrzel said calmly, coming up beside Drizzt, running his hand along the bars of a nearby cell causing the prisoner inside to jump from his sleeping huddle in alarm, “to terrorize prisoners. I can pull one out and put him in irons if you wish to-“

“No,” Drizzt said, a bit too quickly to seem nonchalant. He coughed, and said again, a bit more steady, “No, that’s unnecessary.”

Andrzel’s smug smile widened, “Then what are you doing here?” the tone of the question was strange, as if he was trying to cover rage with something close to kinship, making every word seem like a laugh.

Drizzt returned the awkward, almost creepy, smile Andrzel was giving him, “I wasn’t aware that my leisurely activities were any of your business.” He dropped the smile when a throbbing in his head made it too much to maintain, “Just leave me be, Baenre. I’ll be back to my quarters shortly.”

The weapon’s master stepped quietly aside. “Just thought I’d check on you,” he said with obvious sarcasm, “You’ve been looking a little pale lately.”

Drizzt scowled at him, and a solid throb behind his eyes blurred his vision. The ranger took several deep breaths trying not to groan from the pressure settling in his head. “You don’t need to lie to me,” he said, biting through the ache, “I know what you came here for.”

Andrzel tilted his head to the side curiously, “Oh? Well, then. When is a good time for you?”

“A few days,” Drizzt tried to straighten himself, but the pain was making it difficult and he cursed again, “The priestesses are still frantic and I don’t want another situation like last time.”

“Another draw?” Andrzel laughed.

“Another unsatisfying victory,” the ranger forced a smile, “I’ve grown tired of those over the years.” He laughed weakly and found it difficult to stop, and then difficult to breathe.

As if he was trying to inhale in a smoky room.

When he finally regained control of himself and his vision cleared, Drizzt had collapsed to his hands and knees, the cool stone floor almost jarring against the warmth of his hands. Drops of red stared back at him from the floor and a strong hand came to his side.

“You really are ill,” Andrzel’s concern was real or at least sounded very close, “let me take you to the infirmary.”

“I’m fine,” Drizzt grumbled, collecting himself and wiping the blood from his upper lip with the back of his gloved hand, “Just leave me be.”

“You’re bleeding-“

The ranger shoved him away roughly, “I said,” he stood straight, the pounding in his head lessened a little, “I’m fine. Just leave me be.”

The weapon’s master held up his hands defensively. “It is a heavy burden you bear,” he said, “it’s bound to hurt eventually.”

Drizzt quickly swept past the other drow and out of the dungeon entirely. Andrzel watched him go, but didn’t follow. He bit his lower lip to stop the smirk creeping up his face. It would seem the Chosen was starting to feel the pressure of his station.

Good thing he wouldn’t be there much longer.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Athrogate was the first to make contact with the enemy. His spinning flails cracked the skulls of goblins as the rushed him. The dwarf laughed uproariously as blood and brain matter splattered on his beard and armor, and charged headlong into the force tearing a gaping chasm in the ranks of kobolds and goblins. A bugbear made the stupid decision to try and lift the rampaging dwarf from the ground and was torn not only down, but to pieces in the diminutive warrior’s bloodlust.

“ _Bwahaha,”_ he howled, as the throng began to thin around him, giving the whirlwind of blood and glassteel a wide bearth.

When his weapons ceased to connect with enemy body parts, Athrogate slowed to a stop. Panting, he looked about. He’d gotten dangerously close to the forges, and had spun his way out of the mass of enemies. A sharp stinging burn erupted in his calf, and the dwarf whirled about to see what had struck him. The fletching of a tiny crossbow bolt stuck out of his leg. With a growl, he tugged it free and searched for the archer that had sent it.

The only person he could spot was a dark elf, not too far away, dressed in flowing robes almost asking to be struck down with a blaze of dwarven fury. Athrogate lowered his head, ready to rush, but only took a few steps before another burst of pain lit up his leg followed by another, and another. He slowed, scanning the crowd but couldn’t find anything as he pulled the bolts out of his legs.

The archers came out from their hiding places, swapping their hand crossbows for swords. There were a number of them, but Athrogate knew he could handle it, still making a line for his initial target. The dwarf’s first step was strong.

His next step was unsteady.

“Ye’ve beefed up yer potion,” the dwarf chuckled, “still too weak though.”

The dark elf just smiled, swirling his fingers and saying something the dwarf couldn’t quite discern.

“Durned finger-wagglers,” he growled, taking several more unsteady steps and swinging his morningstars at the archers. He took down a few, but a blur streaked across his vision and he stumbled, allowing the dark elf at his side to score a couple of superficial blows. Athrogate responded with an angry swing to the elf’s skull.

Athrogate smelled the ozone and heard the crackle before he even realized there was lightening. He struggled to keep the fighters between himself and the Xorlarrin spellspinner. The poison was slowing him down considerably, but the few blows the drow managed to land bounced right off his leathery skin and sturdy armor.  One sharp blade scraped dangerously close to his short neck, but he managed to take a step out of the way in time and the sword only sliced at thick braid of his beard. It couldn’t cut all the way through the strong, mud-caked hairs, but it severed several hairs and Athrogate knew a portion of his beard would come loose when he checked it next.

“The hell with all o’ ye,” He roared, biting through the slow burn and numbness to crack faces and limbs with a new fury.

But the loss of enemies to use as a shield left him open and vulnerable. Athrogate didn’t see the bolt of lightning until it struck him in the chest and sent him flying through the air, bouncing off an anvil, and skidding across the stone floor eventually stopping at a shadowy space between two forges. He felt their supernatural heat warming his skin and his heart fluttering at a dizzying pace.

“Potent stuff from a coalskinned knife-eared,” he coughed and could have sworn he saw smoke, “little punk.” Darkness engulfed his vision and he wasn’t sure if it was his own head losing consciousness or one of those damnable globes the dark elves used.

The sound of fighting and the roar of the forges grew faint.

-0-0-0-0-0-

She saw Athrogate go down and be left to die by the dark elves and she rapidly swung her mace to clear enough of a path to get to him. Goblin skulls exploded on either side of her at random intervals and she would have taken more pleasure in it had Athrogate not been so still on the edge of her vision.

Ambergris skidded to a stop beside him, sliding the last couple of feet across the smooth stone to his side, “Oh, ye’ve got to be kidding me. Ye can’t stay standing fer ten minutes?”

Athrogate groaned at her.

“I dunno how well this is gonna work,” She sighed, looking around briefly before placing her hand on his chest.

Nothing came.

Nothing at all; not a spark, not a whisper, just an empty void in her heart. She called out as loudly as she could to her god, but still nothing. “No,” she whispered, “No, no, no, not now.” She tried again, still nothing. “Damnation.”

She rose to her feet at the sound of footsteps behind her. The archers that had taken down Athrogate were taking aim on her, their spellspinner not too far away. The cleric took a defensive stance, “Back off.”

They leveled their crossbows.

Running out of options and in desperate need of a distraction Ambergris violently slammed her mace into the wall of one of the forges. A few blows and a brilliant red streak of primordial fire spread out over the floor before them. A living tendril of lava swiped across the stone floor, bringing a deluge of water from the roots in the ceiling in response. Steam clouded their vision and the dark elves began shouting orders at their slaves.

Temporarily safe behind a wall of steam and fire, Ambergris turned her attention back to Athrogate. She lifted him from the floor and shook him roughly, trying to wake him, since trying to heal him was pointless. “C’mon, wake up ye idiot.”

Athrogate groaned again and it sounded a bit more like words.

Ambergris set him back down, still nudging him, “C’mon. It’s elf poison, ye can’t be that weak.”

“Not weak,” the other dwarf coughed, “lightning.” He opened his eyes and sputtered against the water raining down on his head, “What the-?”

“It’s not gonna last long,” Ambergris told him, still trying to wake him, “The hole in the forge ain’t big enough to cause too much o’ a stir.” As if on cue on the rain from the ceiling began to lessen, “C’mon, big guy, we’ve got elves to kill.”

Athrogate tried to push himself up, but didn’t get much farther, “Oof. I need a minute.”

“Ye don’t got a minute,” Ambergris tried to pull him up, but he was too shaky.

The dark elves had gathered a group of goblins to form a wall between themselves and the two dwarves, expecting an ambush, Ambergris squinted a little and she could make out their silhouettes through the steam.

“Did ye mean what ye said?” Athrogate grumbled groggily, still trying to get balanced on his feet.

Ambergris snorted, “I’ve said a lot o’ things. Ye’re gonna have t-“

“About the gold ye dunderheaded ale-hoarder,” he took a playful swipe at her, but missed wildly, “I’ve never seen a dwarf call gold overrated.”

She planted her feet, ready for the goblins chattering about like they could see her, “Gold is fer coin purses and dainty things,” she snorted, “I prefer metals I can easily beat people with.”

Athrogate chuckled, finally steady on his feet, and collecting his weapons. He swayed a bit, but was recovering. “A dwarf girl that likes to kill things as much as I do. Ye’re perfect.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

The row of goblins began to charge them over the mostly-cooled mound of stone. “I’ve killed more o’ these little bastards than ye.”

“Bullshit ye have.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

His nose was still bleeding when he arrived at the door to his quarters. It took quite a bit of finagling to get through the Baenre house without anyone noticing his state, but he seemed to get by without hassle.

Then, he tried to open the door only to shut it immediately when he was greeted with the outline of the priestess that was meant to keep him company in his off hours. Drizzt groaned quietly into his hand and leaned against the doorframe, the throbbing behind his eyes beginning to obscure his vision.

Drizzt stumbled and shuffled his way into the shadows and down the more empty hallways, leaning against the wall for support. It was getting worse, he could tell. He shuddered, a cold sweat erupted on his skin to fight the feverish warmth in his blood.

This should have passed by now.

He knew there would be some fight-back from his normal, disgustingly goodly self, particularly in a place like this, but this was beyond his expectations. His stomach rolled and twisted violently and he struggled to breathe at times.

Eventually he’d managed to stumble his way onto the balcony, where he’d met Quenthel and saw the rocks fall, nearly tipping over the railing in his haste. Knowing he was alone, Drizzt slid to the ground, leaning against the railing and trying to calm his frazzled nerves.

The ranger clenched his fists, attempting to steady his shaking limbs and closed his eyes. Flashes of firey red and horrible creatures danced in what looked like ritual sacrifice behind his eyes. He felt himself slipping in and out of control.

The binds that held him in dug into his skin and bent his arms at an awkward angle. Strands of the great web dug into his legs. Waves of heat lapped at his skin, and freakish, terrifying noises rank in his sensitive ears.

A soft call, distant and barely discernible, drifted beneath the noise. The smell of grass and pine wove their way through the smoke. Hazy light and song drowned out the flames and terror.

He woke to a gentle nudging at his shoulder and a vaguely familiar voice calling his name. Drizzt tried to shake the hazy fog out of his head. “What?”

“My mistress is looking for you,” the boy said, “I found you out here. You should lie down, properly, I mean.”

“Who-“ Drizzt rubbed his bleary eyes. “You’re… what’s-her-name’s boy.” He started to recognize the poor unfortunate soul always carted in the wake of his consort. “How did you?”

“She sent me,” the slave said, not bothering to give the priestess’s name. He offered a hand to Drizzt, “You still look rather ill, come and lie down.”

The ranger took the outstretched hand without a thought. He felt the slave’s arm tense briefly, contemplating pushing him. Drizzt was about to give the boy a stern warning, perhaps even a threat, when the slave rethought the idea and just helped him stand straight. “My mistress is waiting for you.”

“I am not in the mood for your mistress’s company.”

“Neither am I,” the boy said before he could think to stop himself and bit down on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood in self-punishment.

Drizzt, exhausted, let the boy guide him back to his chambers in silence.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The underlings weren’t much of a problem, and the fight progressed much in the way Afafrenfere had thought it would based upon their last experience. Effron stuck close to him this time, without a ranger to protect him and promptly lose his mind.

Then it started to rain.

“Oh, what in the hells did she do?” Afafrenfere groaned, turning his eyes upward to the downpour. “Damn it, Amber.”

“How do you know Ambergris did this?” the warlock behind him asked.

“Oh it was Amber,” Afafrenfere said bitterly, “It’s always Amber.”

Effron sighed heavily and pulled his hood over his head, “I don’t see any water elementals,” he noted, “just sea water. Really cold sea water.” He shivered a bit.

The monk used the slick floor to his advantage, tripping up the less balanced adversaries and letting Effron dispose of them with his wand while they were down. It was a pretty efficient system until the dark elves at their backs closed in.

“Effron-“ Black tentacles shot from the floor and wrapped about the front ranks of soldiers before Afafrenfere could get out the request for magic. “Oh, okay then.”

A volley of bolts rained down on the two from behind the stuck drow, who became more and more entwined as they struggled against their bonds. Afafrenfere managed to dodge out of the way, but hadn’t been able to grab a hold of Effron as he moved and wave of worry rushed over him along with the water. The warlock might have gained strength in the last months, but he was still no match for drow poison.

But, when Afafrenfere looked about Effron was nowhere to be found. The monk called for him, but heard no response.

“Damn.”

He searched the throng for his companion, laying several unfortunate kobolds low as he cut his way through the ranks and away from the drow approach at his back. This was bad, this was really bad. Where in the hells could Effron have gone off to?

A surge of panic sped up his heart. No, not this again. Where did he go? Where could he have gone?

“It seems you can’t hold on to anyone.”

Afafrenfere stopped dead in his tracks. No.

Not him.

“Even the people you betrayed me for seem to slip through your clumsy fingers,” Parbid’s voice barked, “Makes me wonder what I ever saw in you.”

Afafrenfere wanted to tell him off, to do something to silence the voice, but retorts wouldn’t come as Parbid’s words pierced him.

“Of all the people in the world, that one? I’d still be alive if it weren’t for him and that drow,” Afafrenfere squeezed his eyes shut against the sound, even though he knew how vulnerable it would make him. When he opened them, Parbid was in front of him, looking just as he’d died, but with eyes wild and angry.

A look Afafrenfere knew very well.

“Of all the people,” Parbid said again, and Afafrenfere slinked back reflexively, “you ingrate.”

“Stop…” Afafrenfere’s voice was soft.

“After everything I gave you,” Parbid was shouting at him now, “After everything I did, after I pulled you out of that house, _this_ is the thanks I get? You leave me to die and then run off with my killers?” his tone went from angry to accusatory, “Did you know? Did you set this up?”

“I would never-“ the monk tried to whisper, “Parbid, please-“

“You’re a bastard, just like the rest of your family.”

Anger took over then, “Enough.” Afafrenfere wanted to lunge at him then, but couldn’t find the will to move. He knew the dark elves were coming for him. He could just barely hear them over Parbid’s sordid insults.

Strangely, though, Afafrenfere didn’t care.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The swath of fire one of the dwarves set free from the forges surprised her, but that surprise had been tempered by weakened water elementals that slunk through the crowd in an effort to douse it along with the rain.

_Go._

A simple, curt command on the tail-end of a prolonged conversation about the course of events below that Nana had anticipated before the conversation even ended. The rain beginning to subside and the group of should-be heroes was floundering under the grips of acrane magic and potent poisons.

Nana hopped down from her perch, sticking close to the wall and landing solidly on the stone, knees bending to absorb the shock. A pair of dark elves spotted her as she fell, but she was ready for them; her fans folded into daggers and slipping through the gaps in their armor before they even registered her as a threatening force and not a misplaced slave.

She stepped over their bodies and into the fray, attempting to find a spot where Berellip Xorlarrin would definitely see her.

Nana knew that she should have been terrified, walking into a battle already in full swing wearing no armor aside from her dress and boots, and armed with little more than a pair of fans. And yet, no fear came to her, nothing fractured the calm armor that encased her. Even when the dark elves brandished their blades and came at her, nothing shook her.

Such was the power of her master’s presence over her.

_Show her the severity of her error._

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron felt a little guilty as he watched Afafrenfere search for him. Just a little. He told himself he would apologize for the scare later, but he had more important things to deal with, the most important of which being not getting killed.

The quarrels passed through him as he shifted forms just in the nick of time. For moment Effron almost thought he hadn’t pulled the second spell off fast enough and was relieved to hear them click across the stones.

As a wraith cloaked in the shadows of the dim portion of the forge chamber, Effron could watch the fight more efficiently. Ambergris and Athrogate were wading into the battle from a small alcove between forges. The rain was letting up and the weaker, clumsier creatures were regaining their footing.

The only thing that appeared to Effron as an immediate problem were the casters; too far to be reached by the fighters and preparing for their arrival. The warlock was about to wade through the fight to start raising the dead somewhere out of range of his enemies when Afafrenfere stopped moving.

Concerned, the warlock doubled back to see what had happened. Perhaps Afafrenfere had just been charmed and a little nudging on the mage responsible could disrupt the spell enough to set him free.

Then, the monk took a slight step back and began speaking to the open air as warriors steadily closed in.

“No,” Effron scanned what he could see of the battle for the mage responsible, “where are you?”

His eyes kept drifting back to Afafrenfere, who didn’t even seem to notice the swords closing in on his exposed skin. The warlock cursed under his breath.

The monk was going to die and Effron wouldn’t be able to help him. Ambergris and Athrogate were on the other side of the room, even if he could get to them they wouldn’t be able to aid Afafrenfere in time. Worry frazzled his nerves and made his scanning of the mages more frantic. Someone had to be maintaining the illusion.

For a moment he wondered if it was one of the priestesses he couldn’t see.

His breath grew short, the elves were closing in on his companion rabidly and he only had so much time left.

He didn’t want to watch an ally die. It wasn’t like having someone kidnapped or flee, death was permanent and as strange as it made Effron feel, he had to admit he liked these people more than was probably wise and losing just one of them forever might be devastating in a way that made losing his father pale in comparison.

It was disquieting feeling, but it rallied him to focus.

“Found you.”

Slipping between shadows and around the main force Effron came up behind the spellspinner. Dropping his wraithform disguise, the warlock readied his wand, dark bolt slamming solidly into the drow’s back before he even noticed Effron was there.

The warlock called to his friend, praying the illusion was broken or at least for the opportunity to draw attention to himself and not his vulnerable friend.

Well, the latter half of his plan too effect immediately.

“Oh, great,” Effron groaned, backing away from the large group that turned their eyes on him. He called for Afafrenfere again.

Just one sign of movement. _Any_ sign of movement that was all he needed.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The water elementals began their retreat back to the primordial chamber, they were dark with ask and slunk about weakly as they moved, a sign of the state of Gauntlgrym. It almost worried the cleric to see the protectors of this ancient place in such dire condition.

That is, if she had time to worry.

Ambergris saw the blade coming for her exposed side and knew she wouldn’t be able to parry it in time. She braced herself for the pain of the wound and hoped it wouldn’t be too much for her while Athrogate continued to solidify his footing.

But the blow never came.

Dispatching her current target, Ambergris saw a small, slight form out of the corner of her eye moving from drow to drow with lightning speed and efficiency; knocking one to the ground and killing him quietly before pouncing on or dancing over to the next one. At first, the cleric thought it was Afafrenfere come to aid them, but the skirt and long, trailing braid of silver hair told her otherwise.

“C’mon,” Ambergris tugged Athrogate after her “Let’s follow her.”

Athrogate almost resisted, but stumbled a bit and decided that Ambergris might actually know best in this situation. He allowed the cleric to pull him along.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He heard something calling for him. A distant, familiar voice.

Effron?

The second call snapped him from his trance and the monk found himself looking at swords and the backs of soldiers. He barely had time to dodge out of the way and felt several blades score hits to his skin and the loose cloth of his armor. The monk nearly stumbled, but instead dropped to the floor in a tumble, coming up just out of range.

Effron was still out of his line of sight. He called for the warlock, ducking beneath blades and scoring hits in a renewed flurry of fists and elbows to the exposed faces and necks the dark elves had to offer him. Afafrenfere spun and twisted awkwardly through the crowd, still calling for Effron until he slammed into something that nearly toppled under the force of his weight.

In fact, it did topple, though Afafrenfere managed to keep his footing.

“Ow-“

Afafrenfere hastily helped the warlock to his feet and hugged him tightly for a split second before regretting the action and letting the poor boy go. “You’re okay,” he tried to mask his laughter with labored breathing, “You’re okay.” His joy turned to anger very quickly, “Where did you go?”

Effron coughed and panted, still shaken from his fall. “I protected myself,” he said, “I’ll explain late- Who is that?“

The monk looked to him curiously and then followed his line of sight to the center of the room. Ambergris and Athrogate were fighting beside an elfin woman. Her technique was strange, Afafrenfere noticed. She fought as a monk would but with forms and stances that would have been considered obvious mistakes in Afafrenfere’s order; she left her chest unguarded, and she broke form mid-motion to score cheap, but effective hits with complete disregard for her safety. She even pulled a man to the floor and clawed at his face like an animal until he stopped moving before rising to her feet again.

 “I have no idea,” Afafrenfere shrugged, “but if the dwarves like her-“ he didn’t bother to finish the sentence before tugging Effron along with him.

By the time they got to the dwarves, the girl was gone, lost in the crowd around them, “Who-“

Ambergris cut the monk off, “We dunno, but I think she went after the priestesses. I dun think she’ll be a problem.”

Afafrenfere and Effron both nodded, readying themselves for the last rush of the battle.

The rush did not come.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Saribel, call off the soldiers,” Berellip was on the verge of pleading with her sister, “the mind flayers obviously have something invested in this group, just let them pass and aid us.”

The head priestess turned from watching the action. “Whose side are you even on?” she spat, “Who knows what this little group will do with the power they have. They could destroy all of us.”

Before Berellip could answer a third voice joined the conversation, “She is on my master’s side, Xorlarrin, and she is right.”

Berellip nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the elf’s voice. No one was able to sneak up on her, and this little twit made it look easy. “How-“

“Call them off, Saribel,” the elf warned.

Berellip turned to her sister expectantly, but Saribel just stared hard at the elf, “No. And I don’t see why you are so interested. They will die, we will take what we need, and Gaunlgrym will be saved. Everyone wins.”

A scowl, “My master does not trust you with the artifact he’s given these people. These relatively honest people whose intent is to save Neverwinter, not make themselves more powerful. You _will_ let them pass.”

“What manner of artifact is this?” Saribel arched an eyebrow.

“That is none of your concern, and if you do not call off your men I will replace you with someone that-“ She stopped, or rather, was drowned out by the sound of Berellip shouting down for the troops to let the group of four pass into the chamber unscathed.

She added that when the group’s task was completed they were fair game.

“Thank you,” The elf said with a slight nod, “good to know one of you has some sense.”

The two dark elves watched her leave. Saribel immediately turning on her sister, “What are you doing?”

“Calm down,” Berellip hissed, “If we show our loyalty now, the illithids won’t be able to logically blame us for what follows. It will be completely out of our control.”

It took Saribel a moment to realize what was happening, but when she did a wicked smile split her face.


	12. Sons of the Spider

Dahlia couldn’t stop herself from looking around nervously as they entered the strange, dark tunnel. She’d been underground before, a number of times, and had seen both natural and worked stone and it looked nothing like this. She held her staff closer to the wall, lifting it a bit and looking closer at the stone.

“How did you find this place again?” she asked, trying not to sound nervous.

“I know a guy,” Tiago replied. “What concern is it of yours? This tunnel will get us where we need to go in half the time it would take us on the surface.”

“On the surface we would have a horse,” Dahlia countered.

“We would also have terrain,” Tiago argued right back, “Trees, rivers, roads, _towns_. This is a tunnel, a straight shot through the Underdark. Horse or no, it’s still faster.”

Dahlia couldn’t really argue the point.

They walked the tunnel in silence for a long while before Dahlia couldn’t handle it anymore, “So what made this tunnel? Doesn’t look natural, and this isn’t dwarf work from what I know.”

“According to my source,” Tiago said over his shoulder, “a dragon.”

“A _what?_ ”

Tiago laughed, “A dragon, you know, big scaly thing, breathes magic, giant teeth.”

“I know what a dragon is, you ass,” Dahlia deadpanned. “I meant to express surprise that there could _be_ a dragon in this tunnel that could want to kill us and take our magical gear for its treasure horde and you obviously don’t give a damn.”

“Oh. Well, the dragon’s digging from North to South, so it would have to double back to get us,” he explained, “Which I doubt it will do, since this tunnel is a few days old.”

“A few _days_.” Dahlia laughed sarcastically, “Oh, why yes, of course, I feel so much better.”

“As little as I care about your feelings,” the drow groaned, “I’ll inform you that this is a small tunnel, so it’s a young dragon, probably not even fully adult, and a tunnel this high that’s a few days old is a known sign that the dragon has gone to the surface already. If it’s going to eat anything, it’ll probably be Neverwinter.”

“Lovely.”

Tiago scoffed, “I can’t win with you can I?”

“I’ll just tell you now, my spider-worshiping cohort,” Dahlia leaned in close, “Men can’t win. Ever.”

Tiago made a face at her, she laughed, and then the two continued walking in silence.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The assassin stood, drowning in silence, and using his weight to block the door.

He didn’t even realize he’d drawn his sword until he adjusted his grip; he had to admit he felt safer with it in his hand. The clacking footsteps came to a stop just outside the door and lingered there, echoing, for what felt like ages. After a time Artemis began to wonder if he’d just imagined the noise, but reminded himself what the dark elves were like and the danger was real regardless of whether or not the noise was also.

 “I know you’re here,” a familiar voice whispered through a crack in the door, “and I know you can hear me.”

Entreri nearly groaned aloud at the sound of the voice, but managed to keep his emotions in check enough to remain silent and still.

“I want to help you,” he continued, “I know what you’re here for and I know how to help.” There was a brief pause, “I came alone.”

“I don’t believe you, Jarlaxle,” Entreri said back, knowing his position defensible enough that he could take on whatever the mercenary had concocted, at least of a time.

Jarlaxle sighed heavily and the door shifted a little under the addition of his weight, “Artemis, please, I know you don’t trust me anymore and I understand why, but we have a mutual friend and he is in very real danger.” There was a long pause, “I can only assume that you have a plan to help him, you just don’t know how to get to him. Artemis, you know as well as I do, that I can get you to him, but you need to let me help you.”

The human bumped the back of his head against the door, grinding his teeth in frustration. He was right. It was awful, it hurt, but he was right. As much as Entreri didn’t want him to be right, he was. With a heavy, deep breath, Artemis opened the door.

What he saw on the other side surprised him.

It was Jarlaxle, just as he’d expected, and alone, just as the drow claimed. However, the mercenary was unarmed, in fact, he was stripped of his gear entirely; aside from his boots, his earrings, and a really obvious knife on his belt, the drow only wore a pair of dark breeches and a light shirt. No rainbow cloak, no magically adorned vest, and no ostentatious hat.

It was almost alarming to see the dandy that was Jarlaxle so underdressed.

Confused, Entreri stepped aside and let him in, closing the door slowly behind him. ”You’ve,” he stammered a little, “you’ve downsized.”

Jarlaxle tried to laugh, but there wasn’t any soul in it. “My gear is in a chest in the tactics room, I just didn’t want you to feel too threatened.” He tucked his hands behind his back, “You’re the type of animal that bites back when pushed in a corner.”

Entreri’s angry laughter would have been enough to force a lesser man to never make eye contact with, much less speak to, the man again. Jarlaxle, however, took it in stride.

“Poor word choice it seems,” he conceded. “But in all honesty, I am here to aid you in saving Drizzt.”

The assassin lowered his sword. “And how am I supposed to believe you?” he said, “How am I supposed to trust that you haven’t come here to dispose of me and stop me from helping him so the Baenre’s can have the Chosen of their Spider Queen under lock and key?”

Jarlaxle’s expression turned somber and slowly, he approached the man, “Artemis, I know there is a river of bad blood between us, but I want to rebuild the bridge. I want to help him and I know what he means to you, please just hear me out.”

“Last time I heard you out you sold my soul to a monster.”

The drow placed a hand on the human’s shoulder, “You need me for this.”

Jarlaxle’s grip on Entreri’s shoulder tightened and he pulled the man close, turning him roughly, and out of the corner of his eye, Artemis could see the bright flash of metal as the drow’s belt knife came for his skin. The assassin swung his sword in retaliation, but Jarlaxle stepped out of the way, dagger slicing the skin behind Entreri’s ear just at his hairline. The drow danced away and before Artemis could come after him a shock where Jarlaxle had cut him made him wince and stop moving.

The human made a feral, growling noise, “I don’t know what those women raised you to believe, but stabbing someone is not the way to get them to trust you!”

“I wanted to make sure she couldn’t see us,” Jarlaxle replied calmly.

“ _What?_ ”

The drow took a deep breath, “Arunika. When Drizzt called on her to,” he paused trying to think of a proper phrase, “convince you to stay, she took a little insurance. She put a rune on your skin and we’ve been using it to keep an eye on Drizzt by watching you.”

Artemis’s expression was getting less and less amused as the explanation went on. At one point Jarlaxle didn’t think it was possible for the assassin to look any dourer, and was surprised.

“It’s how we knew that you were about to fall from the cliff in Ashenglade, it saved your life,” he defended, “It’s gone now, and she’s probably going to be angry with me for it, but we have privacy now.”

The human touched a hand to the tender skin around the cut, wiping the blood off on his trousers, “I knew she was a witch, but this was unexpected.”

Jarlaxle shrugged, “She is more than she seems.”

“Please tell me she isn’t a dragon,” Entreri said before Jarlaxle could even finish his sentence, his visage one of genuine worry.

“She isn’t a dragon,” Jarlaxle replied.

A deep breath of relief washed over the human. “Okay, now that that’s out of the way,” he glared at the other man for a moment, “you said you wanted to help me.”

“Yes I-“

“Ap-“ Artemis held out a hand to silence him, “I know. You have a _plan_. You know the Baenre grounds and this whole gods forsaken rat-hole better than I could ever have wanted to.” He sheathed his sword and folded his arms across his chest, “I’m willing to hear this plan, and tell you my own, but you must do something for me. Tell me why you’re here.”

Jarlaxle blinked at the man in disbelief, “I- what? We don’t have that kind of –“

Again, Artemis interrupted him with an upraised hand, “Either you do this for me, or you leave and I do this alone. Either way Drizzt is left waiting. Now, Jarlaxle, tell me, and do try to be at least halfway honest; why are you so invested in saving Drizzt that you are willing to come in this state of undress just to convince me to help you?”

“Drizzt is my friend,” Jarlaxle tried to argue, but he knew it wouldn’t stick before he even finished the sentence.

Artemis cocked an eyebrow, “I know how you treat your friends and it is not like this.”

The mercenary took a deep, steadying breath. The moment he figured out it was Artemis Entreri that had come to aid Drizzt Do’Urden, he knew that it would come to this. That he would either tell the man everything, or not be able to aid him in the effort. At least not directly.

Without that direct aid Artemis might get himself killed, or worse, even if he did manage to save the ranger.

It was a more difficult decision than Jarlaxle had thought it would be.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The dark elves lowered their weapons when the voice shouting at them from overhead stopped. Several wrangled the few goblinkin remaining to stop them from attacking the group of four huddled near the exit to the primordial chamber.

“The hell-“ Ambergis lowered her mace.

Effron and Afafrenfere looked at each other warily. As a group, the companions slowly inched their way toward the next chamber, eyes still focused on the dark elves. They’d only made it a short way before a voice called out behind them.

“What are you doing? The way is clear.”

As a group they whirled around, surprised to see the same surface elf that had cut through the fight earlier standing not too far away.

“The drow will not attack you,” she said, her voice heavily accented, “their leaders have seen reason. Come, this way.”

The followed her into the chamber, the roar and swirling heat of the primordial more hellish than when they’d last visited.

“What in the Hells have they been doin’ to this thing?” Athrogate breathed, no small amount of offense in his voice.

The elf thought for a moment, “They have been feeding it living creatures.”

Effron stepped up beside her, pulling the talisman out of a fold in his robes. “Let’s just get this over with so we can leave.” Effron led the group and their addition cautiously to edge of the swirling mist of steam and scalding hot water the held the raging inferno.

It was a deep vermillion, almost harmful to their eyes as they looked. Tendrils of flame lapped at the remaining elementals sending steam into the air like shriek of agony. Water boiled at the edge of the whirlpool and stone ledges about the pit sagged and glowed under the intense heat. It roared at them, a sound like thunder in the room that rattled their teeth and sent their hearts aflutter.

“Will this work?” Effron asked, more to himself than anyone in particular, but the elfin girl answered him anyway.

“It should,” she said, “Elder artifacts are powerful enough to stop time, it should be able to serve its purpose.” She looked at Effron squarely, “You do know how to use it, don’t you?”

The warlock shrugged, “I was told to break it and throw it in.”

She nodded, “We’ll need to have people at the lever, ready to throw it, and someone to give a signal.”

The group split up those tasks; the dwarves gearing up to cross and throw the lever, Afafrenfere agreeing to stay with Effron, and the girl assigned to give the signal.

“Who are you anyway?” Afafrenfere asked as they got ready to split up.

“Someone to make sure you are not hindered again,” she answered. “My master donated the artifact; he wants to see it used properly.”

Effron mouthed the word ‘donated’ himself, but couldn’t ask about it.

The javelin just grazed him, but the force was enough to knock him from his feet, and the talisman clattered across the floor. Afafrenfere immediately dropped to his side, shaking him awake; the girl ran for the talisman, and dwarves readied their weapons.

“Wha-“ The warlock mumbled.

He could tell how many of them there were, most hidden in the shadows, but they approached rapidly. Huge creatures, half drow, half spider, growling like feral animals with weapons leveled at them in a unified charge.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Why are you so invested?” Entreri pressed, hand returning to his sword, “Make me believe you aren’t going to betray me again.”

Jarlaxle took a long time to answer. It took the human shouting at him to spur him into action. “Because,” he said loudly to get the human to stop talking, lowering his tone once he had Artemis’s attention, “this is my fault. I made this mess, I intend to fix it.”

Artemis scoffed, “You have got to be joking.”

“I made a mistake,” Jarlaxle confessed, “I was young and stupid and I did something terrible without knowing the consequences, and this is the only way I know to fix this.”

The human blinked at him, “I don’t- I’m not following you.” He ran a hand through his short hair, pausing to scowl at how long it had gotten recently, “What does Drizzt being the Chosen of Lolth have to do with you?”

“It should have been me,” the drow said, solemn. He felt a weight lift from his shoulders, and then something twice as heavy settled in his chest. “It was _supposed_ to be me.”

Entreri’s eyes went from casually skeptical to completely passive, “How is it _not_ you then?” His voice was low and shook a little in anticipation. The assassin could feel the beginnings of a chill settling across his skin.

“Because I made a mistake,” Jarlaxle said, and the look Artemis gave him told the mercenary that wasn’t going to be enough. “I found out on accident. I was spending a lot of time in House Baenre after my business partner left me to join a house of his own,” he hung his head and added quickly, “this woman that was helping us that he had a torch for killed her matron, and well, he ended up weapon’s master.

“I heard Yvonnel tell Triel about what she found out, and my name came up and I panicked.”

“What did you do?” there was a low tremble of anger there now.

Jarlaxle bit his lip sharply before continuing, “I went to the only person I thought could help me get rid of that title. I went to Gromph.” He hadn’t expected to be this anxious, or the truth to be this painful, “Remember when I told you I’d been to Hell? I wasn’t lying.”

“You appealed to the Spider Queen?” Entreri’s tone wasn’t doing anything to help Jarlaxle confess, “You sold Drizzt to save yourself?”

“No!” Jarlaxle held up is hands, “No, Drizzt didn’t even exist back then. But, if I wanted to get Lolth to hear me I had to give Her something of equal or greater value. And I-“ his voice cracked and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat, “And I gave Her one of the greatest fighters Menzoberranzan has ever seen.” The lump got thicker and Jarlaxle could barely breathe, “I gave Her Zaknafein. Drizzt’s father.

“But,” he added before Artemis could say anything, “I grossly underestimated what She would do. I thought she would just take Zak, and he was a lost cause anyway. He’d fallen in with the priestesses. _Malice stole him from me._ It was too late for him, and he’d have to obey Her doctrines anyway, what was a little more pressure.” His next breath shook, “I didn’t think she’d take his whole damn bloodline!”

Panting, Jarlaxle stopped talking for a while. The information slowly sinking in. Several tense, quiet moments passed and the assassin just stared at him, expression completely blank. After a while the look started to make the drow uncomfortable; he thought he’d broken the poor man.

“Let me get this straight,” the mercenary had never heard Artemis’s voice take on such a strange, low tone, “You sold the soul of a man and those of his _children_ to the _Demon Queen of Spiders_ to save _yourself?_ ” His voice grew steadily louder as he spoke and he nearly screamed the last word.

“I did not know it would come to this,” Jarlaxle argued, “I did not realize the damage that had been done until it was too late.”

He sounded like an animal, “And when was that?”

“When Vierna lost her mind too,” Jarlaxle covered his face with his hand, “being the Chosen of a goddess of chaos and evil comes with a very special brand of madness. Zaknafein crumbled under its weight and so did his daughter. I thought, since Drizzt had made it to the surface, that he’d been saved and spared that fate by his new goddess.” He took a deep breath, “I thought he was okay.”

Artemis’s jaw clenched, “How long have you known Drizzt _wasn’t_ safe?”

“Longer than I would like to admit.”

There was another long, drawn out pause.

Artemis was the first one to break it, “You’re a monster. You are, hands down, the single most _evil_ and sickening man I have _ever_ had the misfortune to encounter.” He laughed and it sounded a little hysterical, “I mean, I’m no saint and I’ve encountered some sick, _sick_ people, but you, oh, you win that prize, Jarlaxle.”

“Artemis,” Jarlaxle trembled under the cloud of the man’s words, “please, you need to understand, I _want_ to fix this. I want to make this right. Drizzt does not deserve this anymore than you deserved to be betrayed to Alegni. I never meant for things to get this out of control, I thought I knew what I was doing. With Lolth, with him, with you, with everything. But it turns out I didn’t have any control at all, over anything.”

The assassin buried his face in his hands and started to laugh. It was an alarming sound and Jarlaxle felt as if he’d taken another major misstep. The bout of laughter lasted an uncomfortably long amount of time. “Jarlaxle. For some unfathomable reason I am getting the impression that the only reason you want to make this right is because you have, somehow, gotten into some sort of trouble and-“

“Artemis. No.” Jarlaxle took several quick steps and took the assassin by the shoulders, forcing the man to look him in the eye, “Listen to me. I have regretted this decision since I realized it was my _only way out._ I couldn’t live under the thumb of a goddess any more than you could yourself. I had to get out of that arrangement.”  He sighed, “I’m not going to love forever, if I’m going to repent for this I need to start now.

“People change; you are proof positive of that yourself. Please. I care about you and Drizzt, I don’t want this to be what I’ve done.”

Entreri scoffed, “You never cared about me, _maybe_ Drizzt, but I was just a ticket to the surface for you. After everything you put me through. The priestesses, the drow takeover of Calimport, that _damnable flute_.” He was shouting again, but Jarlaxle wouldn’t back down, “I watched your men drag a woman, I thought was _dead_ before me and kill her as a tactic on _your orders._ ”

“I was surprised how much that hurt you, really, I didn’t Calihye meant that much to you after-“

Artemis shoved him away, “What does it matter? You ripped me from my home and as far as I am concerned Alegni’s crimes are yours as well. I may not be surprised that you are so callously willing to sell someone’s immortal soul up the river to save your own ass, but don’t you _dare pretend that you care about the people you’ve sold!”_

“I was going to come back for you!” Jarlaxle shouted over him, “Just like I’m coming back for Drizzt now. Kimmuriel stopped me, it was part of his ploy to take over my guild. A ploy that was nearly successful. When I thought you were lost I did what I could to salvage the broken pieces of what was left.”

“Don’t you dare-“

“If it hadn’t been Calihye it would have been her and you know it,” Jarlaxle said, “I had to make a choice, the Netherese wanted you to get the message and Kimmuriel knew just as much as I did.”

“What did you do?”

The drow sighed, “I got her out of the city shortly after you left for Baldur’s Gate. If you ran, I knew they would do the same thing to her that they did to Calihye.” Jarlaxle laughed in spite of himself. “She wasn’t too happy about it.”

Artemis’s anger diminished a bit, “What did you tell her?”

“That you’d been killed. So she wouldn’t come looking for you,” Jarlaxle calmed as well, “most expensive bottle of alcohol I’ve ever had thrown at my head.” He tried to smile, but stopped before it got too creepy, “I did care about you and your life and the people you cared about, I would not have gone for D-“

“You put her name in your mouth I swear on my life I will hurt you,” Artemis snarled.

“I would not have gone for her and I would not have done half of the things I have,” Jarlaxle finished. “I know you nor Drizzt when he finds out will ever be able to fully forgive me for this or anything else, but I need to make this right regardless.”

The assassin closed his eyes and breathed deeply, “I can’t tell how much of your sincerity is real. I can’t tell if you’re lying about all of this or just some of it or none at all. You’ve done so much damage I doubt you’ll be able to fix any of it.” When he opened his eyes again, the anger was gone and just a sadness remained in its place, “You stole my freedom from me. My _life_ , my great chance at something like happiness, you stole from me. You sound sincere, but you’ve sounded that way before.”

“Artemis you have to believe-“ Jarlaxle tried to speak but Entreri stopped him.

He was torn.

He didn’t want to believe the drow. If all of this was true, Jarlaxle had been trying to help him and just screwing up for years. His prolonged imprisonment to Alegni had happened on accident and he was just an unfortunate victim of circumstance and drow intrigue.

Artemis didn’t want that to be the case. A warm wave of bitterness and anger swelled within him. He wanted someone to blame, someone to be and stay angry with.

He wanted there to be a cause.

But, parts of what the drow said rang true. He remembered the flash of dejection that he’d seen on Jarlaxle’s face before they parted ways in Memnon. The glimpses of worry, sympathy, and emotion he’d seen on the way to, and in, Vaasa. The healing potions left on his nightstand in Menzoberranzan to ensure none of his wounds were permanent.

Had those gestures been lies?

Entreri felt an ache deep within his chest.

Jarlaxle had called himself his friend and Artemis had believed him back then.

He wasn’t sure if he could believe him now.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Despite the dwarves’ quick rush to the front of the group, the driders still had the upper hand in the ambush and they were forced to give ground quickly. Ambergris nearly dragged the still-dazed Effron along as they retreated from the rush and away from the primordial.

The creatures shouted at them, not that they could understand a word, but it sounded threatening.

The elfin girl slid up beside them, knocked aside like a ragdoll by a female before she could get her hands on the artifact.

“I’m just gonna guess and say ye didn’t know about this,” Athrogate growled at her as she scrambled to her feet.

“They are supposed to be in cages or on the outskirts,” she responded. “They should not have been a problem.”

The group huddled together, still giving ground the drooling, snarling hybrid creatures. They were worn, beaten down to almost nothing, and a fight with these creatures was not likely to work out in their favor. They backed themselves against a wall, Effron and Athrogate shielded by the other three.

“What do we do?” Afafrenfere whispered.

“I dunno,” Ambergris replied, still holding her mace high, “Damn it, I wish I still had me magic. Any ideas girl?”

It took her a moment to answer, “Help might be coming.”

“ _Might be?_ ” Afafrenfere nearly shouted, ducking out of the way of another projectile. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” the girl snarled back, “That I have called to my master for aid, whether or not it is delivered is at his discretion now. It may not come.”

The driders rattled their chained wrists, broken bonds making an awful noise along with the pained, crazed growls of their breakers. The creatures were nearly crawling over each other to get to them, eyes glowing a deep, evil red, and runes along their bodies nearly burning off their skin. They cursed, spat, and gnashed their teeth dangerously.

The ones that managed to get too close were greeted with a mace, a fist, a fan, or some combination of the three, a lightning quick and gruesome assault that left the corpse twitching like a dead insect at their feet.

“You seem weirdly accepting of all this,” Afafrenfere panted when they had some space again.

“I am not afraid to die in the line of duty,” she huffed back. “Although, getting eaten really isn’t the way I wanted to go.”

“How long until that help o’ yers gets here?” Ambergris snarled disrupting their short reprieve.

The girl stood silent for several moment, eyes closed, concentrating. When she finally opened her eyes, she looked to the other two and said nothing.

They were on their own.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Okay,” he sounded tired and weak, “okay.” It was for Drizzt, he told himself, but he wasn’t sure that was true. How long had he desired proof that Jarlaxle didn’t betray him; that the man was truly his friend? All his years of flirting with that desire, Artemis never once thought that it would be so hard or painful to accept. “Help me.”

Jarlaxle shifted his weight, about to take a step toward him but rethinking whatever idea he had before he acted on it.

“If I find out that anything, _anything_ you told me is even remotely untrue…” Artemis started but his voice tapered off.

“I know better than to lie to you anymore, Artemis,” Jarlaxle said softly, “it’s been nothing but trouble. More for than for me, but still.”

“Why me?” the assassin hadn’t wanted to ask but found the words coming out before he could stop them.

“You’re so much like him,” Jarlaxle confessed, “I guess on some level I could make up for what I did to him by helping you find purpose and fulfillment in your life. I never meant for things to go this wrong…”

“I believe you.”

Jarlaxle started, stunned, “really?”

“I don’t want to, but I do. You are a terrible person, and an even worse friend apparently, but I’ve seen you try not to be,” Entreri shrugged, “don’t let me down Jarlaxle. Don’t prove me wrong again. I don’t think I can handle another betrayal.”

“I won’t,” the mercenary wanted to hug the man, but knew that would be a bad idea, “I’d die first this time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

The two men wearily sank to the floor, sitting not too far from each other in dark expanse of the hall, both barely illuminated by the glowing orb of ceramic between them. Exhaustion settled into their limbs. Entreri fell backwards first, groaning tiredly and staring at the ceiling, “I don’t forgive you,” he said suddenly, jarring the elf.

“I understand,” Jarlaxle said mimicking the assassin’s motion, “I didn’t expect you to forgive, not yet.”

The silence was more comfortable this time.

“What is this place?”

Jarlaxle laughed, “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Artemis snorted, “I believed your stupid story about selling Drizzt’s father’s soul for your own freedom. I think I’ll believe just about anything right now.”

Jarlaxle told him and the two men shared a genial, if slightly pained, laugh.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Drizzt came around slowly, only remembering bits and pieces of the night before. His head was clear now, the pain completely gone and the fever broken. His mouth and throat were dry as the desert sand, but other than that he couldn’t really complain.

Slowly, he lifted his head off the pillow, the bloodied pillowcase sticking to his face briefly. He groaned, running a hand over his face and trying to wake up a little more fully.

“That was one hell of a nosebleed,” Andrzel’s voice commented from the foot of his bed. “Took forever to stop, almost had to call on the priestesses.”

Drizzt made a questioning noise, his throat to raw for words and the weapons master offered him a glass of water. The ranger took the glass politely, but refused to drink from it.

“My sister’s slave found you,” Andrzel explained, “you were pretty out of sorts by the time you got back here. Matron Mother Quenthel sent me to keep an eye on things, you know, in case you turn on us and try to escape.” Drizzt shook his head, but the other man just laughed at him, “Come now, don’t be offended, we’re just looking out for your safety.”

The ranger pulled his legs in and sat up more fully resting the still full glass of water in his lap. “I’m fine now,” he rasped, punctuating the sentence with a cough, “I’ll be back to completely normal soon.”

Andrzel raised an eyebrow.

Drizzt smiled at him, a twisted, exhausted thing, possibly made worse by flecks of caked blood in his hair. The weapon’s master rocked back in his chair in alarm and tried to hide the motion by standing, but it didn’t work. The ranger laughed quietly adding to chilling and disquieting nature of his stare and smile. And the other man slowly backed out of the room, shuddering when he knew he was out of the ranger’s line of sight.

Finally alone, Drizzt brought the glass of water to his lips and drank deeply.


	13. Ideas

Regis pulled a small knife from his belt, flipped it deftly in his hand, and used it to carve a large rune in the first tree he happened across as he watched Catti-Brie’s portal close out of the corner of his eye.

When he’d watched the fires, he thought they were only for show, a sort of scare tactic to keep Drizzt trapped should he accidentally get free on his own or a deterrent for any errant creatures that might get too close to the Spider Queen’s captive. However, now that he was here, that he could feel the heat on his skin, smell the smoke and ash, he knew that he’d been mistaken; this was a very real wall of fire to keep her prisoner detained. Briefly, Regis hesitated, wondering what else could possibly be hidden within, muffling the sounds of its passing beneath the thunderous, terrified sounds of fleeing animals and the sharp cracks of falling branches.

With a deep, steadying breath, the halfing bowed his head and strode into the wood.

The soil was soft, his feet sinking slightly with every step and the few embers still smoldering just below the cover of cool grey dust scorched him more times than he’d care to admit, and frequently he found himself reminded of his initiation to Pook’s guild and the table of hot coals he’d been forced at knifepoint to dash across. Twice.

Regis tried to stick to the trees despite their intense heat, using the roots breaking out from the ground to traverse the treacherous terrain. A task made easier by their dense clustering. He found himself forced to mark his path frequently, every ten paces or so, just in the hope that he and Drizzt would be able to get back in time to not be stranded. Or worse, lost in the maze of wood and fire.

“This is not what I agreed to when I retired,” he grumbled, carving another rune in a tree. “All I wanted to do was fish and bask in the sun. Is that really so much to ask?”

The next gnarled root cracked as he landed upon it. A younger Regis would have been able to catch himself on the branch above; a more practiced Regis could have quickstepped to the next root. Unfortunately the body he was stuck with was just as aged and out of practice as it was when he met Drizzt, so he tumbled sidelong into the ash, soil, and embers, a stream of colorful curses erupting in his wake.

He huffed and spat and shook loose ash from his hair and clothing, scrambling up and into a short run when the shadows between the smoldering trees moved menacingly and a bit too close for comfort.

“This is not what I agreed to-“

-0-0-0-0-0-

Artemis threw his arms up, tugging at fistfuls of his own hair in frustration as he fell back against the floor, careful not to move his feet and muss the map Jarlaxle had spent hours meticulously recreating from memory across the hall’s smooth floor. “There is no way in all the hells that is going to work.”

Jarlaxle called something back from the bedchamber that Artemis couldn’t quite hear but the assassin was almost certain it was contrary to his own statement.

“Even if,” Entreri continued, knowing that the drow’s heightened senses would allow Jarlaxle to hear him even if he couldn’t hear the responses, “by some absentee-god ordained miracle that we managed to even get _close_ to house Baenre surely someone would spot the two of us _running across the roof of the complex._ ”

Jarlaxle said something else Artemis couldn’t hear and the human couldn’t help but smile. If the entire arrangement could just stay this way Artemis might actually find the drow’s assistance tolerable.

That dream was dashed very quickly when Jarlaxle returned to the room, ridiculous hat  perched upon his head once more, boots clicking, bracelets jingling as he walked. He seemed more like himself now, but still conspicuously underdressed in a way Artemis couldn’t put into words.

“I didn’t realize the earring was part of a set,” the assassin snorted before he could stop himself. It was strange to see the elf with a large hoop of enchanted yellow gold in each ear and have them match perfectly, and some insatiably curious part of Artemis wondered why he’d never done it before.

“I lost it for the longest time,” Jarlaxle replied, his face unsettlingly neutral, “just recently found it again.”

Artemis made a face, but didn’t press. “There’s no way we are going to be able to do this unnoticed.”

“Then you are not the master assassin you so boastfully claim to be.”

The human felt the barb twist in his pride and wanted to snap back, and a younger Artemis probably would have, but instead he settled with a sigh, “Any other house in the city and this wouldn’t be a problem, but this is the Baenre clan.”

“Normally I would agree with you,” Jarlaxle nodded, looking down at his map, “But a large portion of the force is distracted by the new expansion,” he pointed to the spot, outlined in dotted lines along the north side, “It’s the most vulnerable part of the structure and therefore the most heavily armed. And we,” he pointed to the route he’d outlined to Artemis earlier, “will be too far away for them to notice us.”

Artemis was not comforted and expressed this with a simple, but angry “ _Baenres_ ” and Jarlaxle just sighed at him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron blinked slowly, confused about his sudden change in position; on the ground nearly having his hand stomped upon by a dwarven boot. He shook the daze from his head and coughed around the dull ache in his chest where the javelin had grazed him.

He almost died, he realized abruptly. Only the moment needed to take proper aim stood between him and swift, painful demise. He felt cold and grew colder when he realized his hand was empty.

“Oh no,” he breathed, his eyes scouring the floor around him.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Ambergris laughed, swinging her mace at the biting maw of a drider that dared to get too close resulting in a horrific explosion of blood, hair, and teeth, that splattered on her, the prone warlock behind her, and the monk at her side.

“Control that thing, Amber-“ Afafrenfere grunted, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his sleeve with a disgusted groan.

A sharp keening cry beside him snapped Effron’s attention to another rapidly approaching drider. The elf girl that had come to aid them plunging her daggers into its flesh, ducking below the great, sweeping arcs of its swinging greatsword.  “Little help?” she called, when a second came up behind the first and the two bore down upon her.

Athrogate was with her in an instant, but still shaky on his legs, stumbling as he dodged out of the way of a swing and pitching forward a bit when he stepped up to deliver one of his own.

The next swing only barely missed and any observer would be able to tell that odds were not in the dwarf’s favor just yet.

Effron searched for his wand, hoping to offer some assistance, but couldn’t find it. He groaned pressing his forehead to the stone floor in frustration. This wasn’t going to be comfortable, he knew, but it was necessary. Hastily, he scrambled to his knees, took a deep breath, bent his arm close to his body, and twisted his wrist with a loud pop. A jarring tension shot through his arm when he straightened it, an abnormally large bolt of dark energy surging from his palm and striking home on one of the driders, knocking it from its spindly feet beside the dwarf and leaving it open and vulnerable to the assault of glassteel flails that followed. Effron made a sharp noise and pulled arm close to his body again, pins and needles lighting up along his muscles.

He needed to find his wand.

“Whoa,” Afafrenfere laughed, turning slightly to look at Effron when a break in the fighting allowed him to breathe a bit. “I thought-“

“The wand is a conduit,” the warlock grunted before the monk could finish his thought, waves of cramping pain in his arm lessening, but not gone “a very _useful_ conduit.”

Afafrenfere got the message and quickly turned his eyes to the floor, only to have his attention returned to the fight when one of the grotesque creatures nearly landed a hit on his torso. He regretted leaving Effron to search in the fray alone, but didn’t have much in the way of choices.

“Aff, I found it,” the warlock called. The monk scowled, ready to make some snide comment about the fact that he was a little too busy not being eaten to care right now, but Effron quickly clarified, “the amulet.”

It was the girl’s voice that called back in response “Where?”

Effron did his best to articulate distance and position without actively pointing and drawing the attention of their enemies to the artifact. The elf came closer, gently directing a still-swinging Athrogate behind her and the group pulled into a tight cluster.

“We need to get it back,” she hissed.

“We can cut our way through,” Athrogate snorted.

Afafrenfere shook his head, “They’re swarming. For every one you take out, two more take its place.” As if to emphasize his point, a drider lunged for him, pulling him from the group and forcing the others to tear it down in a concentrated flurry of weapons.

“Yeah,” Effron sighed when the monk was thrown back into the small, defensible space and the others ducked to join him, “that’s not going to work.”

A tense silence followed for a few heartbeats. The driders seemed to back off a bit, reorganizing themselves. Despite their lapse in sanity and control, they were still hunting animals first and foremost, and their initial tactic obviously wasn’t working. The stillness was strange and more frightful than the sound of clicking teeth and limbs and yowls of pain and anger; a calm before a terrible, destructive storm.

“I have an idea,” Afafrenfere said suddenly, “but it’s really stupid.”

The others looked amongst themselves, most gazes falling on Effron, waiting for something better. When nothing came, Athrogate eventually spoke up, “We’ll be the judge of that.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

The orb Tiago had given her proved to be too much in the light of day, but in the Underdark it became immensely useful. Dahlia’s own low-light vision wasn’t enough to see in the intense darkness for too long without straining her vision. She’d used Needle as a light source for a while, but when they finally broke off from the dragon-made tunnel and into true Underdark territory Tiago demanded she put the thing out, lest they attract too much unwanted attention from the native fauna.

So, Dahlia slipped off her eyepatch and placed the orb into the empty socket. What was blackness so deep imagined color swirled within it in her left eye, bloomed into a dim blue tunnel in her right. She could see a faint, wispy outline around her companion, swirling with various shades and colors, but lost the details of his face. Runes and sigils invisible to the naked eye appeared on the walls, and side tunnels suddenly became visible. It was a little dizzying, given how used she’d been to using her left eye in the absence of the right one, but the elf adjusted quickly.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” she snorted after a while, “it’s just stone and vermin.”

Tiago scoffed at her, “You keep thinking that, girlie. You’ll die faster.”

Dahlia made a face at his back, but changed the subject, “So, what’s the plan when we get there?”

The drow slowed his pace so he was walking beside her. “Well,” he said, running a hand through his short hair, “if Do’Urden’s still in the city, House Baenre will have him. If not, this is the route he will take.” He gestured up and down the tunnel.

“Are you certain?” Dahlia asked, confused at his confidence. There were so many tunnels, so many options, so many ways out.

“It’s the route he used before,” Tiago nodded, “It’s the one he knows best. To the Moonwood. He won’t risk getting lost in the wilds if he’s escaping, he’ll want to make for daylight as quickly as he can.”

Dahlia nodded, accepting the explanation. “And if he’s still in the city? How do we get in to House Baenre?”

Tiago made a noise that sounded like he was choking back a laugh. A short silence followed before he took a deep breath and said, “They’ll let us right in. The matron probably has a serious bone to pick with me, and you’re a surface elf.”

She narrowed her eyes, “I’m not getting tortured for this.”

The drow waved off the notion as though it were an errant insect, “It won’t come to that. Not when they figure out they can use you to control Do’Urden. You’ll be worth more to them alive and whole.”

“And you’ll get accolades for bringing the stick to beat the Chosen into line with,” she said flatly. “Who’s to say they haven’t already found something that works?”

“Matron Mother Quenthel was around the last time Drizzt Do’Urden was a Baenre prisoner. She knows how to get to him,” he quickly added a clarifying, “How much his friends mean to him,” before she could argue, “She’ll see that seeing one of his comrades in distress will be a much more convincing method than physical torture.”

Dahlia still sneered at the idea.

“Well, once he’s dead it won’t matter much.” Tiago shrugged.

“Speaking of which,” Dahlia half-laughed, “How do we get-“ she stopped short. A wispy, ghost-like shape moved on the edge of her magically enhanced vision. She pointed it out to Tiago.

The drow drew weapon and pulled his shield from his back, “We’re too far out for patrols,” he whispered. There was a biting annoyance in his tone; he’d much rather use hand signs, but he knew for a fact Dahlia wouldn’t understand them.

She readied her own weapon without a sound.

The shape, upon further examination, turned out to be about four moving entities; too thin to be drow, but still humanoid and partially hunched their heads swinging from side to side, searching.

The two elves looked to each other for some recognition of the creatures and the methods used to fight them, neither was successful. Tiago rolled his eyes and brought his shield forward, advancing, and hearing Dahlia’s boots fall into step behind him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Wow,” Ambergris blinked at him, “that is really stupid.”

The monk shrugged at her, but kept his eyes trained on the driders. The creatures were watching them closely, eagerly, waiting for them to make the first move. Occasionally, one would get over eager and break from the group a few steps and the rest would follow, inching closer to the intruders huddled close to a hole in the wall.

“It could work,” Effron said, earning him his own set of skeptical glances. “They don’t seem to be all there, if we flank them like that it could confuse them enough to give us the advantage.”

“Yeah,” Athrogate spat, his voice strong and steady once more as the poison’s effects were overpowered by his dwarven constitution, “ifin’ we had an _army._ That’s just gonna weaken our force as we are.”

“Not if we’re quick,” the girl chimed in, not sounding at all thrilled with the idea, “if we circle around, get the amulet and just cut right through, the driders will be confused, our group will be whole, _and_ we’ll be closer to victory.”

The dwarf laughed, “Sounds like someone’s got a death wish.”

“I’m very committed to my job, and my job is to get that amulet into the primordial,” the girl deadpanned. “No cost is too high.”

The rest of the group looked at her suspiciously, but decided to let it go for now. “I think I’ve got at least one good sprint left in me,” Afafrenfere said. His muscles were starting to burn from prolonged tension and use, and a run through swinging weapons would probably be less likely to do him in than meeting to force head on.

“We’re gonna get ourselves killed,” Ambergris groaned running a hand over her face, “an’ I can’t bring anyone back this time.”

The silence that followed was a tense one.

Their failsafe was gone. A foolhardy plan like the one Afafrenfere pitched only gained ground through sheer desperation and the knowledge that if someone was injured, they could be healed almost immediately with a quick burst of magic upon return. The idea that the cleric’s magic was gone left them all wondering as to what the best course of action would actually be. They were backed into a corner, literally, and some briefly entertained the idea of just letting the mission go and bolting for the only other exit across the bridge and past the lever.

But retreat would spell disaster for more than just the dark elves in Gauntlgrym. It could ravage the ruin with war when the humans came down to finish what they started and failed to do three times. That kind of delay and the beast would be freed.

Totally freed to roam the land and destroy everything in its path. Not just the city of Neverwinter this time, _everything._

“We’re doing it,” Afafrenfere said firmly, casting a sidelong glance to the elf that make the run beside him. She nodded affirmatively, grey strands of hair falling across her brow, knocked loose from the tight braid along her back from the exertion of the fight.

A strong hand slapped him on the back as Ambergris wished them both luck. A moment, barely more than a breath’s worth of time, the monk shot a look over his shoulder to Effron.

The firm resolve in the warlock’s face surprised him, and bolstered his own.

Dwarves readying their weapons, shouting taunts at the still-observing driders, took a collective step closer to the primordial drawing all attention to themselves for a second; just enough time for the human and the elf to break off from the group at a full sprint.

It was really stupid idea, but the only one they had.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Artemis leaned against the doorframe, skeptical eyebrow arched high and dark eyes watching the elf closely, “So this is what you’ve been doing in here?” he asked, annoyance tempered with a slight, disbelieving laugh, “Lounging?”

“For all their faults,” Jarlaxle laughed, settling in comfortably, “this family had impeccable taste in furniture.”

“Tell that to their secondboy,” Artemis snorted.

“You can join me if you wish,” Jarlaxle offered, scooting to one side and gesturing to the open section of bed with an interesting expression.

“I would rather sleep on a bed made of hot coals and spiders than next to you,” Entreri sneered, earning himself a hurt look from the drow, “And to be even more honest, I’d rather have a plan before resting-“

“We have a plan, or rather I have a plan you refuse to agree with,” Jarlaxle interrupted, “It will work. Trus-“ he stopped short, wincing slightly before simply repeating, “It will work.”

The assassin sighed, sitting on the side of the bed. Jarlaxle pulled in his legs so the two could sit comfortably across from each other on the plush blankets. “You can’t possibly know that,” Entreri said, his voice surprisingly gentle, “and there is more at stake here than a simple magic trinket or even a large sum of gold or glory. I cannot just take your word for this, Jarlaxle, I need something I know will work. I can’t bank on hope right now.” He started, as if to add something else, but decided better of it.

“I’ve made the run once already,” Jarlaxle said, hoping to placate the assassin, “Albeit, I was alone, and I did not actually step inside, but I know the roof jaunt is safe.” He sighed, obviously struggling with the level honesty he was trying to maintain. “I do not know,” he confessed, “the level of security they have placed on Drizzt. In the last few days I have seen him with a weapons master, several young priestesses and, on occasion, an older one that spends more time with him than most, and personal servant. I have not _seen_ guards, but surely he is under some sort of lock and key.” He ran a hand along the back of his neck, “I’m beginning to suspect a sort of curfew, a time that he is locked in his chambers and not allowed to leave without supervision, much like the way Lord Quick kept him captive.”

Entreri’s gaze dropped to the bed at the mention of an attentive priestess. He wrung his hands and Jarlaxle saw a muscle in his jaw tighten. He’d only seen the expression on the assassin once before; when he knew something he did not wish to. Despite his curiosity, Jarlaxle kept himself from asking what that something was.

“We have a quick way out?” the human asked after a few moments the drow knew he spent calming himself down over whatever realization he’d made, “I doubt I will be able to carry Do’Urden’s dead weight across the roof of the complex.”

Jarlaxle couldn’t help but feel a chill at the tone Entreri used for Drizzt’s name and the formality with which he’d referred to a man who had, until very recently, been his lover. Or so Jarlaxle assumed, given how very little he knew of Drizzt and Artemis’s relationship. “Yes,” the drow said quickly, shaking the thought from his mind for now. He pulled a wand from a loop on his belt, one of only three he chose to carry, “It’ll open a portal to the outer tunnels. I have a safe place arranged. A place I have no doubt Drizzt will recognize and be able to lead you out of when he wakes.”

He made a point to say when and not if and he was sure Artemis noticed the gesture. His next words were less harsh.

“Good. I don’t know how long Catti-Brie’s magic will take, or what all it entails and I don’t want to be caught with an army on my back while it happens.”

“I’ve got that covered too,” Jarlaxle said with a laugh, “because the Baenres will chase, do not doubt.”

Artemis didn’t ask what he had planned for the army that would be following them, only nodded at the presentation of an idea. He looked so tired, so worn down, as if simply being in Menzoberranzan sucked his very soul away as the assassin had done to so many others with that dagger of his.

Or perhaps, Jarlaxle mused, it wasn’t the city, but the reason he came to it.

He missed most of what Artemis said next and had to be jolted from his musings with a sharp call of his name. “My apologies,” he said hurriedly.

“What after?” Entreri’s voice had a strange waver to it, “After all this… there’s still the matter of Do’Urden being Lolth’s Chosen. How do we undo something like that?”

Jarlaxle shook his head, “I would say, present someone more worth her while, but not only does Drizzt stir up a great deal of chaos on his own, she’s probably making heads roll among the gods themselves stealing away another goddess’s Chosen.”  He held out his hands, “As of right now, I don’t have a plan for a more permanent solution, other than I want to be involved.”

Entreri accepted that with a gracious nod of his head. There would be time for broader plans later.

“We should rest,” Jarlaxle said softly, “Once we leave here…” Artemis nodded, understanding, and the drow trailed off. He moved to leave, but Jarlaxle caught him by the arm.

They stayed like that, Jarlaxle anchoring Artemis to the bed, for what felt like ages.

Entreri settled back down, finding a comfortable place at the foot of the bed and curling up there. Jarlaxle did a similar thing on the opposite side, a good distance between them, but still within reach of each other.

Neither really slept.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Regis peered out over the edge of the cliff, slipping his knife back into his belt for the time being. It was a nearly sheer face, dropping down a considerable way into what appeared to be a pool of lava. Black webbing shot through the bright orange and yellow glow; a spider’s web suspended in the pit to capture prey unfortunate enough to drop in. Vague, shadowy shapes traversed its surface, some on more two legs, others on no legs at all, but seemed widely dispersed enough that Regis could probably sneak past them even in the open plane.

One silhouette out of the dozen or so he spotted, remained stationary.  At the center of a pit, against the wall opposite a wide, low outcropping worked and carved to be some sort of building Regis couldn’t recognize without sight of the face. The shape was low, as if crouched, slim arms braced above its head, stark white hair moving lazily on the howling wind the tore through the chasm.

Drizzt.

The halfling breathed a heavy sigh. The drow was still, a sign that Entreri hadn’t quite gotten to him yet in the realm of the living. He had more time than he thought, which, depending on how much more, could be either a blessing or a curse. Even if he wasn’t sure how worth trusting the man was, he trusted in the skill of Artemis Entreri, and knew that Drizzt would wake eventually.

Regis scanned the cliff face. Drizzt might have been skilled at scaling surfaces in Icewind Dale and Mithril Hall, but this kind of climb would be too much for both of them. There had to be another way up, a way the Spider Queen’s minions could have pulled Drizzt through the forest and down to the pit without actively throwing him.

Or perhaps they did throw him-

The halfling shook the thought from his head. There was some sort of building down there with the ranger. It had to lead back up.

It had to.

He darted from the cliff’s edge in search of a similar worked-stone building. It wasn’t long before he found it. Regis hesitated just outside its door, scowling at the intricate carvings of women, spiders, and strange hybrids of the two. “I hate temples,” he grumbled, “I’ve always hated temples. Why does it always have to be a temple?”

He huffed and angry breath and crossed the threshold.


	14. A Group Effort

She arched her back; neck craning over the edge of the bed, soft white hair pulled loose brushing the floor. Her sharp nails digging into his shoulder blades and scratching long, stinging lines down his back.

Drizzt slowed his pace, his mind fogging and breaths coming in labored gasps against the dark crook of the priestess’s neck. That oh-so-familiar warmth settled around him and he tried to pull away, but was stopped by nails digging into his sides, holding him close, despite attempts to get away.

When she finally released him and his thoughts cleared, the ranger was on his back, silken bed sheets cooling his skin with alarming quickness. Drizzt could hear the woman bustling about the room and getting dressed. He scowled up at the ceiling.

Any other woman would have enthusiastically pushed him away. Drizzt worried sore, swollen spot on his lip.

He sat up abruptly. “Where are you going?” he asked as the priestess was making her way out the door. She jumped a bit in surprise.

She mumbled something about errands to tend to, striding back over to him and running a sharp-nailed hand under his jaw. He dismissed her.

The priestess left in a hurry and Drizzt watched the door. After several moments of silence, the ranger began to laugh.

The reason they’d sent him a priestess as a consort and not just some serving woman, her startling willingness to please, her enthusiasm in bed, even the weapon’s master’s flippant attitude, fit together and he cursed himself quietly for not noticing and doing something about the ploy sooner. He laughed all the harder.

“So that’s the game Quenthel wants to play,” he scoffed, lip curling in a sneer. “I suppose it’s my turn.”

He collapsed back against the sheets and plotted his next move.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They watched the group below split in two. Nana and the monk running low, the dwarves rushing the drider group head on, the warlock held back looking for something.

“This is foolish,” Kimmuriel sighed aloud.

_You should have known about the driders,_ Razlaould scolded.

The psioicist groaned this time. “I _did_ know about the driders,” he argued, still speaking as his thoughts were occupied, “I knew they were chained up and caged in a nearby chamber. I did not know that they had been released to be used as a trap. And neither did Berellip, it seems.” He ran a hand across his forehead, “No, Saribel has inherited her brother’s pride and acted alone.”

The two watched the group attempt their plan below in silence for several seconds.

_They will die,_ the illithid commented. Kimmuriel thought he heard a slight urgency in its tone, but then shook it off as imagined. _More importantly,_ it leaned over the lip of the alcove, getting a better look, _they could accidentally destroy the artifact before it can be used._

Several more seconds of silence passed between them

The Oblodra pinched the bridge of his nose, “We’re going to have to help them, aren’t we?”

The illithid made a soft, gurgling noise, _It appears that way._

“Hune,” Kimmuriel snapped, pulling Valas’s attention to him. “Go ahead,” he pointed down the tunnel, “clear us an escape route. We’re going to need to get out of here in a hurry.”

The scout nodded sharply and dashed away.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen combat, creature?” He asked, raising a surprised eyebrow when he returned his attention to Razlaould and found that the illithid had removed its fitted coat to reveal the loose, simple clothing beneath. It was as though it planned to enter the fray directly. Kimmuriel tried for a moment to wrap his head around the idea before Razlaould’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

_Not long enough_ , it confessed, tossing the coat over its shoulder and starting off after Hune.

Kimmuriel nearly laughed. This fight was about to get even more interesting.

Effron watched the driders hesitate, confusion on their contorted, oddly proportioned faces. They obviously had expected their prey to stay together, to huddle in terror, not rally. The warlock narrowed his eyes, these weren’t stupid creatures. Bestial, perhaps, but not stupid, they understood the hunt, how humanoids should operate. They adapted quickly, splitting into two groups; the smaller, more agile females turning slightly to take on the sprinters as they came, and the stocky, muscular males charging the dwarves.

It was an impressively quick process and some absent, probably insane, part of Effron thought about how the bestiary in Draygo’s library should be amended.

The sound of crunching bone and inhuman screeching jolted the warlock back to reality. The dwarves had moved away from him a bit giving him room to breathe, but also leaving him horribly exposed. Quickly he filed through the spells he knew he could cast with immediacy, cursing under his breath when he came up with very little that could prove helpful for the group and not just himself.

He needed to find his wand. Effron could almost hear Draygo’s voice over his shoulder yelling at him for not being more careful and always losing things and there was a reason he was locked in the tower and it was because he was useless.

The warlock certainly felt useless watching his friends fight so valiantly around him and being able to nothing to help them. His chest tightened. Even if he did find his wand, he probably still wouldn’t be much help to them.

Without thinking Effron fired another bolt straight from his hand, electric pain shooting up his arm with the aftershock, blurring his vision and causing his heart to beat strangely for a moment.

He could hear the thankful shouts of his comrades; apparently his strike had done something.

Effron stumbled a few steps, pitching completely backward like a clumsy idiot when something caught beneath his boot and rolled his foot right out from under him.

Well, that was one problem solved.

Then, he heard shouting.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They touched down just outside the primordial chamber, control lever in sight and protected by a lone, straggling guard. Poor girl seemed skittish, young and left to defend her position alone when all other forces had been diverted to intercept the group of heroes.

Kimmuriel slowed when he saw her and shot a glance to Razlaould, only to see that the illithid had not broken its stride. Footsteps making barely a whisper of sound as the creature crossed the room with swift, gliding steps, just out of the girl’s line of sight. The long, dark fabric of its coat wrapped in a loose loop around one hand. Kimmuriel saw the female notice the creature’s presence, ears perking up, body responding, but it was too late.

The mind flayer’s speed surprised him, such efficiency of movement and practiced ease, the Oblodra thought he was seeing a demonstration of technique between two willing participants rather than vicious surprise attack. It looped the fabric around her neck, reigning her in with a sharp tug, and locking her sword arm behind her back. A sharp twist and a quick step, and the elf was pinned to the wall, tips of her boots barely brushing the floor. She gasped when the fabric around her neck was loosened a little, trying to fill her lungs with the air they’d lost in the impact and managed to get out a sharp, high pitched scream before deft and unnaturally strong tentacles wrapped about her neck and coiled at her temples.

Kimmuriel looked away when he heard the crunch of bone. He knew what came next and the thought made him queasy. He did not raise his gaze until he heard the heavy thud of the guard’s lifeless body hitting the worked stone of the floor. “Body tamer training,” he noted with a soft laugh, “impressive.”

He wondered why Oryndoll would send a body tamer of all things to aid him, and why he hadn’t made the connection sooner. He’d entertained the idea that Razlaould wasn’t the scholar it claimed to be, but a _fighter_ , not even trained in psionics, was not in his realm of guesses. As far as he knew the body tamers weren’t allowed to leave their posts, much less be sent off as emissaries, they were so low on the social ladder.

Then again illithid politics were even more convoluted than drow politics, so anything was possible.

Razlaould made a wet coughing sound, something akin to sarcastic laughter Kimmuriel figured, and spat a shard of bone between bloodied tentacles to the stone floor with an awful noise.

Kimmuriel winced.

Tossing its coat aside, the creature led the way into the next room, across the bridge and into the primordial chamber. A few driders had heard the guard’s scream and had broken off from the group to investigate.

“This looks worse,” Kimmuriel sighed, rubbing his temples.

There was no response. When he looked up, Razlaould was gone, the driders’ heads turned in the direction he’d gone as they began to pursue.

“Fighters,” the psionicist couldn’t help but laugh to himself, glad he was spared a tussle with the creatures, if only for a few moments.

He set his sights on the dwarves, calling out to them.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The monk let his soft boots slide across the worked stone floor when he changed direction. The action pulled him just out of range of a swinging weapon he knew better than to look at, and put him in sight of their lost artifact. It was amazing the driders hadn’t stepped on it or otherwise found the thing yet, but, he supposed, their focus on eating the intruders was at the forefront of their attention. He called over his shoulder to the girl that he’d found it.

She rushed past him, calling out to the deformed creatures in undercommon, taunting them and pulling their attention to her. The females narrowed their eyes and looked at the foolhardy girl with a special kind of hatred and clamored after her when she ran as though they didn’t even see him.

The girl had bought him an opening and he took it without question or comment.

His muscles were burning now, years of training telling him that he needed to learn when to quit and that this kind of fighting was suicidal. All of that was quickly wiped when adrenalin surged through him on the tail-end of a gust of air; a barely missed swing of heavy weapon at his back.

Afafrenfere didn’t chance a look over his shoulder or a change in direction to get away, knowing anything other than a straight shot would slow him enough to fall into the next swing’s range. He barreled ahead, picking up as much speed as he could before dropping to the floor.

Cloth armor, smooth stone, and fresh blood carried him between spindly legs and completely under another one of the creatures, coming out on the other side unscathed, picking up the talisman as he slowed to a stop.

A wicked grin bloomed on his face when he saw the two females angrily entangled with each other, fists swinging, fangs chomping at flesh, their weapons forgotten in the close-quarters.

He had not expected that to work. The monk turned back to the direction of his group, conflicted about going to help the girl before rejoining them. A heavy sigh and Afafrenfere decided that she could take care of herself.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Nana wasn’t faring as well. The creatures had proven faster than she had expected and had gained up on her very quickly. She managed to dodge the first few swings, even tear one of the driders from her feet with a few well-timed stabs, but it wasn’t enough.

A single, strong swing of a club struck her torso and knocked her from her feet, sending the elf sliding across the floor. Breathless, she tried to scramble to her feet, but couldn’t gain traction.

The one that struck her, a round-shouldered, muscular thing with a horribly scarred face and mouth that opened unnaturally wide dashed toward her, hoping to beat its companion to the kill. It kept its body low, long stride carrying it the short distance with lightning speed.

Nana couldn’t get away. It was going to kill her, she knew.

Strangely the idea didn’t bother her as much as it probably should have.

Still, she tried to push herself to her feet.

To her surprise, a strong hand slipped under her back, and strong shoulder braced against hers. She felt lighter at the contact, no, weightless. Nana smiled, tucking one foot under her to push off from the floor and using a perfectly timed kick to the drider’s approaching face to vault over her master’s shoulder and land on shaky legs behind him.

“And here I thought you’d abandoned me,” she laughed around labored breaths as she retrieved her daggers from their places on the floor.

Razlaould didn’t bother to answer her, squaring off with drider. The scarred creature stopped, confused at the sudden change in opponent. It rocked back, wary and slightly calmed in its confusion trying to measure this new humanoid before it. Its companion, another female, drew up beside it and didn’t waste time with such fuss. She swung her weapon at the slender and still target before her.

Like a spark of flint on steel, Nana saw her master suddenly in motion, stepping within the arch of the swing and stopping the arm as it swung toward him. She heard a low pulsing sound and a sharp crack as bone splintered and broke skin. The beast howled, only to be stopped abruptly by a blow to the soft, unarmored flesh of her belly. She doubled, and the illithid took her wounded weapon arm and swung it wide, leaving the beast open.

Nana finished it quickly, her master’s attention already turned to the remaining drider.

This one wasn’t so foolish. It tried to weave its way around the fast and formidable thing that had so quickly taken down its companion; all quick, short steps and gnashing teeth. It managed to grab Razlaould’s left arm, just above the injured hand as he tried to block a swing and with a twisted, evil look it dove in.

The illithid was ready for it, dexterous tentacles weaving over the drider’s sharp teeth as he wrenched his arm free, his good hand catching the dark skinned monstrosity at its throat. Nana could see the shift in his weight before he moved and cringed when her master dropped low and ripped the monster’s lower jaw clean off at the hinges. His wounded, but now free hand, balled in a loose fist was quickly brought up to clip the falling drider’s exposed palate, another beat and bone cracked with a sickening sound.

The poor thing was dead before it hit the floor.

_With me,_ the illithid ordered, gesturing for Nana to follow, _quickly._

-0-0-0-0-0-

Athrogate stiffened, stepping back from the fight for a moment feeling as though someone had dumped cold water down his back. His head swam a bit and he tried to shake it off, thinking the feeling to be a lingering side effect of the poison.

_Stop resisting, you idiot, I’m not coming down there._ Kimmuriel’s voice growled in frustration clear as day, as if the dwarf had thought the words himself in the elf’s voice.

“Are ye serious?” Athrogate grumbled, swinging his bearded head about in search of the drow.

_Stop! Listen._ Kimmuriel’s voice said, _Make your way back here. Your men are running on fumes now they’ve been fighting so long, and the sooner you can get this done the-_ The psionicst’s voice stopped mid-sentence to allow the dwarf to engage another drider. Once he was in the clear, he continued, _the better. You and the cleric have the shortest strides, make your way back here._

“An-“ Athrogate almost said aloud only to realize the elf wouldn’t hear him. _And leave the others?_ He attempted to focus his thought but wasn’t sure how the whole mind magic thing worked half the time. Normally he left Jarlaxle to that sort of thing.

_They can out run the blast and the driders._ There was a pause, _We can’t stay long. I want to see you at that lever before we leave._

“ ‘We’?” Athrogate asked, earning curious glances from Ambergris and Effron.

_Just move, dwarf._

  “Something you need to tell us?” Ambergris elbowed him in the side.

Athrogate grumbled something to himself about elves and magic the other two couldn’t quite catch before saying, “Yer boy needs to get a move on. We need to get out of here.”

She slapped him across the back of her head, “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.”

The other dwarf was about to raise an argument when a small, white disc sailed over their heads. Effron managed to stop the item’s progress with a quick strafe to the left, but couldn’t muster up the dexterity to catch it. Luckily the fall to the floor wasn’t enough to break the thing prematurely.

Afafrenfere huffed quietly, falling behind the dwarven barrier to catch his breath.

“Where’s the girl?” the warlock asked after a few moments.

The monk shrugged “I lost her.”

“Alright, new plan,” Athrogate said before any further questions could be raised, “Amber an’ I are gonna start for the lever, ye two are gonna throw that thing in and run like hell.” He turned a pointed look at Afafrenfere, “Ye think ye can handle that?”

The monk snorted, “Me? Sure. I’ve just run twice as far as the rest of you combined while fighting, but sure, what’s one more jaunt across the chamber? I didn’t need my legs anyway.” The dwarf made a face and Afafrenfere huffed at him indignantly, “Sure, I can handle it.”

The dwarves looked to Effron who only shrugged, “If I can’t you can just leave me here to be eaten.”

“That’s not going to happen,” the monk said, perhaps a bit too quickly.

No one really had the time to think anything of it, as the group had split again.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Saribel took a step back from her perch. “This isn’t good,” her voice shook, her eyes locked on the blood-stained and very angry-looking illithid on the ground floor staring right back at her. It turned, very briefly to look at its servant, and the priestess took the opportunity to back away.

“So they’re killing off the driders,” Berellip said, not seeing what was actually happening, “And stopping the primordial. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

“No, sister, I-“ Before she could finish, the surface elf and her master appeared over the ledge the two priestesses watched from. The girl went straight for Berellip, laying her low with a single swing of her elbow.

Saribel would have worried for her sister, just a little, but the blood dripping through her shirt from the illithid’s slowly moving tentacles was dominating her attention.

_You think me a fool, drow?_ It accused, anger making its voice grating and Saribel ground her teeth painfully against the sound. _You think yourself clever?_

She couldn’t speak, but tried to keep her train of thought to the negative. She shook her head. How badly she wanted to shut her eyes, to back away further, but neither were possibilities for her now. The priestess felt tentacles just outside of the range of her vision coil against her jaw.

_I do not like to be toyed with, child._

Saribel tried to convey the thought that the driders had gotten out accidentally, that she had no idea.

The illithid wasn’t buying the story, and she realized how right her sister was to be fearful. Though, in all honesty, she’d never encountered one of the mind flayers in person and had always believed the terror associated with them to be exaggerated hearsay.

How wrong had she been.

“I can’t control them,” she stammered, “Lolth’s magic controls them and it’s go-“ her voice died before she could finish the sentence. She longed for that magic; the might of her goddess behind her, allowing her to smite the creature where it stood rather than cower.

She realized only a heartbeat too late that that particular train of thought wasn’t the best to have in her current situation. She felt her heart flutter, almost as if it was sure she was going to die and wanted to get in a few extra beats before it stopped forever.

A pale hand slipped between the bloody appendages wrapped about the priestess’s neck and jaw, forcefully turning the creature’s gaze away. It growled angrily at first, but stopped.

The elf saying, “Master, you must go,” with increasing urgency every time she was forced to repeat the phrase.

The illithid hesitated and the girl was forced to point over the ledge. It followed, and just like that, they were gone back over the edge.

Saribel collapsed to her knees beside her sister. She felt light, almost empty.

The priestess gently shook her sister, but made very little noise.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron managed to keep up with Afafrenfere well enough, long legs matching the monk’s quick strides. His magic was immensely useful, keeping the way mostly clear as they crossed, for the second time that day, to the primordial.

This time it was going to work. It had to. There was no third try this time.

Secretly, Effron hoped that if they were going to fail, they would at least be thrown into the fire and killed for their efforts. The thought tugged at him even more when he caught sight of the blaze, like it was calling to him, whispering promises to him if he just took one step too many.

He tried to shake his head to clarity, but it was a hand on his arm that did the trick.

“Let’s go,” Afafrenfere encouraged, already starting back.

“Wait-“ The elf girl, bloodied and pale, caught the talisman just as Effron dropped it to the floor to break it.

“No.” The monk shot back.

The girl shoved him, “Please, just a few minutes. Enough time for my master to get away.” She saw the argument rising in Effron’s and Afafrenfere’s faces, “The blast could kill him and the drow, please.” She was practically begging now. “A few moments more.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

No dwarf likes to have the ground swept out from under them, especially if they are being pursued, and even more especially if they’re a cleric that has no idea there are levitating allies around to aid them. So, when Ambergris finally touched the ground she took a swing at whatever had been brave enough to lift her from the ground and haul her up to the bridge in short order.

Her swing missed and she jumped back at the sight of tentacles swirling at her. “What the he-“

“Today, dwarves!” A familiar voice shouted. Kimmuriel waved them over from the other side, closer to the chamber. “The architecture is lovely, but we can’t gawk at the scenery forever.”

Athrogate pulled Ambergris along before she could take another swing at the illithid, the sounds of pursuing driders spurring them on.

One caught up with them, an axe in hand and swinging wildly. Kimmuriel turned about on his heel, gesturing for the dwarves to pass them and shouting something in undercommon.

Curiosity got the better of them once they’d passed the drow.

The illithid stood, stance wide holding the axe blade mid-swing with one hand. The drider made gross, unholy sound before pulling the weapon back and swinging again. Each blow was allowed to land, but none did any damage. Athrogate couldn’t even begin to stifle the bubbling “ _Bwahaha_ ” in his throat when he realized what was happening.

He kept a sidelong gaze trained on Ambergris, wanting to see her reaction when Kimmuriel dropped the barrier and the drider exploded.

It was just as beautiful as he’d expected it to be. He filed it away for later as they were rushed into the chamber. The mind flayer wasted no time on the dwarves, picking up a dark bundle of fabric from atop the lever and dashing quickly from the room. Kimmuriel offered Athrogate a curt salute over his shoulder, only to scowl at the action a second later, much to the dwarf’s amusement, before disappearing down the tunnel as well.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“If we wait much longer, we’re going to die,” Afafrenfere growled at the girl as he tossed aside a heavy corpse, creating a makeshift barrier between the bulk of the force and the three of them and nearly taking one of her daggers with them.

“It won’t be that long,” She assured them. “Soon.”

Effron was starting to feel dizzy; he wasn’t used to using this amount of magic in such a confined period of time.

“Now,” the girl said, sudden enough to jar them both, “do it now. Let’s get out of here.” She urged Afafrenfere ahead of her.

Effron dropped the talisman to the floor, shot a single purple bolt at its center, and, seeing a large crack forming, kicked it with the side of his foot into the swirling red blaze. He turned on his heel and started off after the other two.

The first pulse hit them about a third of the way to their goal; a jarring force that nearly swept Effron from his feet and left his ears ringing. He collided with the elf and they nearly tumbled to the floor together. She was cringing in pain, hand lingering at her neck. Effron squinted at her; she wasn’t wounded as far as he could tell.

They stumbled a bit together, but managed to catch up with Afafrenfere.

The second wave caught them on the bridge, similar to the first, yet stronger, followed by a gust of cold air. A howling whirlwind in the chamber. Snow and sleet quickly followed.

Effron had to fight the urge to look back and observe so intensely he didn’t join in when Afafrenfere and the girl shouted for the dwarves to release the primordial.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They were a safe distance away, but the wave of energy that washed over them was enough to leave both reeling. Razlaould leaned heavily against the wall making a noise that made Kimmuriel feel even sicker if that were at all possible. The drow nearly collapsed to the floor, his vision completely blacked out for a moment and pounding headache he felt from his nose to base of his skull and a warm ringing in his ears accompanying its return.

He knew he should take the pain as a sign of success and keep going, and he did.

But, he vowed to take this up with Jarlaxle later.


	15. Slight Change of Course

It wasn’t a large creature. Even if it straightened its back entirely there was no way, Dahlia knew, that it would stand much taller than her. It looked elven with its sharply pointed ears, high cheekbones, and slender frame, but it wasn’t drow. The skin pulled tight and cracking over bone was too light and the armor it wore was mismatched and sometimes impractical in its gaudiness. The weapon in the creature’s hand was probably the most interesting thing about it; a finely crafted silver sword, glowing dimly and inlaid with runes Dahlia had never seen before even after all her time in Thay.

There were two other creatures trailing not too far behind the first.

“Scouting party,” Tiago whispered over his shoulder, “the main force can’t be too far.” He sounded agitated, almost annoyed.

Dahlia knew it was because he had no desire to actually speak to her, but found she didn’t really care. “What are they?”

Tiago shook his head and shrugged, “I’m not sure. They aren’t native.”

She nodded. “They don’t seem so tough,” she adjusted her grip on her staff, breaking it in two, “Let’s get ‘em”

She tried to pass him when he didn’t rise with her, but the drow stopped her with an open hand against her chest, pushing her back into place behind his shoulder. “No,” he said harshly, “We don’t know how big their force is or how close it is. It’s too dangerous to risk.”

Dahlia glared at him, “There’s just-“

“ _No._ ” And he held her there, a bruising grip on her arm until she nodded and rocked back a step.

“Then, what?”

Tiago’s brow lowered as he watched the progression of the vaguely humanoid creatures down the tunnel. Dahlia noticed a slight twitch of his dark ears when the creatures started speaking to each other and wondered if it was a racial thing or just something Tiago and Drizzt had in common.

“We’ll go around. There’s another way into the city, but it isn’t as close to House Baenre as I’d like,” he sighed quietly, “Let’s just hope they aren’t spread out that far.” He turned and started back the way they’d come almost tugging Dahlia behind him, less she go after the creatures when he wasn’t looking.

-0-0-0-0-0-

A pulsing wave of sound and pressure washed over her like the rush of air as wall of stone comes crashing to the tunnel floor. Saribel watched the group of adventures dash across the room, confused and disoriented driders trailing in their wake. The tall one stumbled and the priestess laughed despite knowing it was inappropriate.

Chill winds roared in the wake of that initial pulse, filling the room in growing steadily colder until her teeth were chattering. Another wave of sound and pressure and there was water in the air, chilling rapidly to snow. The white flakes where everywhere, settling on surfaces, melting under the heat of the room and then freezing again to sheets of ice, they clouded her vision of the room and bit at her skin like tiny daggers leaving her damp and shivering.

Eventually the snow storm condensed, pulling in on itself until a tight whirlwind of snow, wind, and those pulses of sound and pressure covering the primordial’s pit, chilling and ultimately freezing the water elementals until a ring of glowing green ice edged its way around the lip of the pit.

Such powerful magic these adventurers possessed.

With shaking hands, Saribel shook Berellip even harder, struggling to rouse the dazed priestess. She groaned, but remained unconscious.

Saribel rocked back, sitting a bit more comfortably and placing her sister’s sturdy form between herself and the action. Soft, puffy clouds of her breath obscuring her vision, she bit her lower lip and waited.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron watched the gap between himself and the fighters increase steadily as they took the stairs two, sometimes even three, steps at a time and he had a hard time just maintaining a quick walking pace as he climbed. He could endure a great deal; lots of running, exposure to the elements and magic and negative energy, but balance and sureness on his feet were another story. He was fourteen before he figure out how to climb the ladders in Draygo’s library that had been specially modified _for him to be able to climb them_ , so climbing uneven stairs at a full run was a daunting, if near impossible task. He almost lost his footing a few times, sharp edge of a step catching the center of his foot when he raised his gaze and nearly sending him back down and forcing him to slow and focus.

He lost track of how close the driders were getting, and apparently they had no trouble with stairs despite having more legs than Effron had limbs to situate on the narrow slabs of stone. Effron was made violently aware of lapse of situational awareness when a strong hand swiped at him, catching his belt and sending him tumbling to the floor. His horns clacked loudly against the stone as he fell, sliding and scrambling to the edge.

It loomed over him, wrapped in ill-fitting armor and foaming at the mouth like a rabid animal it lunged for him, coming over the lip of the staircase as it came.

Instinctively, Effron straightened his arm, wand ready to shoot a bolt of bright purple lightning into the chest of the creature and send it tumbling down the stairs.

But nothing happened.

He tried again, worry shaking his arm, but again nothing happened. Desperate, he put his arm down and tried to scurry away before the creature was fully upon him. It caught the high hem of his robe and tore it to shreds and clawed rents in his boots but Effron managed to get away uninjured. He tried his wand again while it was down.

Nothing.

Panic flooded through him then at the idea of what this could mean. His chest tightened and his eyes burned. He felt weightless, lightheaded, and shaky. Suddenly the air was too cold for him to breathe and Effron couldn’t even muster enough composure to call for help.

The creature lunged for him again.

Effron wrenched his eyes shut. There was no way he’d be able to get out of the way in time.

But nothing came, no claws, no teeth, no tearing hands. Just, screeching. When he finally mustered the courage to open his eyes the drider was tumbling down the staircase and into several others that had collected along the steps and at the bottom. A strong arm tucked itself under his own and hoisted the confused and still slightly alarmed warlock to his feet.

“You okay?” Afafrenfere huffed when Effron turned around.

The warlock just nodded stupidly, a sharp pain in his head making him wince.

“I think you chipped something there,” a jolt of pain shot through Effron’s head when the monk reached up and gingerly touched one of his horns.

“I’ll be alright.”

A loud, earth-shaking roar drowned out all other sounds. Steam and smoke filled the rooms and wafted up to the bridge around them as the two looked on. The bright, raging crimson of the primordial leapt out of its pit, stopped only by the swirl of emerald and white at the lip and covering it like a dome. Sparks and flare ups tore through the magic and it enrapturing to watch the display. But the artifact’s power was quickly fading against the abuses of the ancient elemental manifestation. The ice began to melt, creating billowing clouds of steam around it.

In fact it was getting dangerously close to escaping.

Afafrenfere and Effron quickly turned their gazes to the two dwarves and the elf at the lever and only then could the two hear their cries for assistance.

It was stuck.

Effron felt himself pale, the tense wave of panic tearing through him again as Afafrenfere took off to help them, towing the warlock in his wake.

-0-0-0-0-0-

A low growl echoed down the narrow tunnel; it sounded so close but the two crouching men knew the panther was a good distance away. She was the only one that could move with any speed below the low ceiling and had been sent ahead to check for obstructions between the two men and their destination.

It wasn’t a natural tunnel, the assassin could tell by how smooth the stone was. In fact, he wasn’t even sure if the tunnel had been worked by hand and not magic. He wondered how long it had been there. “Is there any reason why we could not have taken a tunnel we could actually stand in?” Artemis grumbled after bumping the back of his head against the ceiling for the fifth time.

Jarlaxle laughed beside him, “The Houses still don’t know about these tunnels.” He made a face, “They haven’t been active in centuries.”

“We’re lucky their still here,” the human scoffed. He was grateful for the unguarded passage around Menzoberrazan, but he wasn’t about to let Jarlaxle in on that fact.

The mercenary laughed again, but there was a sadness there now, “Zak _was_ a stickler for quality.”

Artemis chanced a look to his cohort out of the corner of his eye. That obnoxiously bright smile the dark elf wore whenever he was trying to pull off something nefarious had faded to fond, if sorrowful, smirk. His gaze was distant; reliving a memory. The assassin wondered just how much Jarlaxle’s relationship to Drizzt’s father had entailed.

And how Jarlaxle could live with himself for betraying him.

“I wasn’t aware,” he said softly, pulling the drow from his thoughts, “that mercenaries needed secret tunnels like this.”

The human’s tactic seemed to work. “We weren’t mercenaries then,” Jarlaxle explained, “we were thieves.”

Artemis tried to stifle the laugh that bubbled up, but was only partly successful, “You, perhaps, but I highly doubt that Do’Urden’s father had much to do with the thievery.”

Jarlaxle paused a moment and shrugged, “True, he really did more guard handling than actual robbery. He was still a participant though, he was not guiltless.” His voice took on a snide tone, like a child trying to get out of enduring a punishment alone for the crimes of a group.

The assassin snorted and the two men fell back into a comfortable silence, aside from the occasional “oof” of one straightening a bit too much and bumping against the ceiling. Even Jarlaxle bumped his head a few times, and he was supposedly involved in the building of the tunnels.

Without warning, Jarlaxle stopped sometime later. “Call her back,” he whispered, “we’re here.”

Entreri blinked at him stupidly for a moment, “How do you know?” He scanned the walls for markings or signs that they’d arrived at their destination. He went so far as to crouch down and touch the floor. Jarlaxle chuckled at him. “I’m being completely serious, how in the realms do you know we’ve arrived?”

The dark elf had removed his hat and was pulling that all-too-familiar circle of black fabric from it. “Call it intuition,” he said, tossing the circle onto the wall. “Hail the panther.”

He tried to argue further, but Jarlaxle had already passed through the circle. Quickly he called Guenhwyvar back to his side and dismissed her. She growled at him, ears flattening to her head, and Artemis had to assure her that when he summoned her again, Drizzt would be with him before she would fade into grey mist.

“Moody little thing, aren’t you?” he arched an eyebrow at the figurine before slipping it back into his pocket.

With a deep breath, Artemis squared off with the portal. He felt a surge of dread well up within him. What if Jarlaxle was setting him up? What if this was just another betrayal waiting for Artemis to trust him just enough to ruin his life yet again? He tried in vain to drum up some better options. When he found that none were coming, he braced his hands on either side of the portal and dove through feet first, pulling the portal in on itself behind him.

The floor jarred him, being closer than he’d expected and smoother, but he refused to stumble.

Jarlaxle approached him, hand outstretched and foot tapping impatiently.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Dahlia wrenched her arm away when Tiago finally slowed his pace. She glared at him hard, but he didn’t seem to notice her. She rubbed the sore spot he’d left on her skin; it wasn’t enough to be a bruise, she knew, but it still hurt and did nothing if not make her even more angry with this.

He really was taking this whole hostage thing seriously, she mused, perhaps he needed to be shown that she was an ally, not a bargaining chip. A few quick steps and Dahlia caught up with the drow, angry and scathing comments hovering on her lips. Anything she might have said died when she got a look at him, however.

Tiago’s gaze was level and she could see the slight dip in his brow even with the impaired vision the orb in her eye socket provided her. It wasn’t anger that tightened his jaw and focused his vision enough that he could probably bore a hole in the wall had the fighter been more magically inclined, Dahlia noticed, but something else. A dark, cold something that left even Dahlia’s stomach in knots.

She slowed her pace again. What was that? Concern?

The elf slowed her pace again lingering behind him. What would cause someone so bold and brash legitimate concern?

“They haven’t been through here yet,” she said, voice soft, “not enough carnage for Do’Urden’s liking.”

Tiago made a quiet, huffing sound, as if releasing a breath he’d been holding, but he didn’t seem any more at ease. “I can see that,” there was a biting anger in his voice.

Dahlia crinkled her nose at his back, confused. If it wasn’t the prospect of not catching Do’Urden and getting back into his House’s good graces that bothered him, then what? What was she missing? Tiago never struck her as the type to be shaken by strange creatures, or alternate routes through the wilds.

Then, it dawned on her. Why he wasn’t willing to plow through the scouts, why he wouldn’t be overly worried about capturing his target. She felt her heart tighten in her chest at the idea.

Was he sabotaging their plan? Prolonging their journey long enough that their opportunity would be missed?

Did he not want to return to Menzoberranzan?

Dahlia stared hard at the glimmering shield on the dark elf’s back, wondering what the prospect of self-sabotage entailed for her. Would they just leave together, opportunity missed, or would Tiago find a way to stick it to her anyway?

She wasn’t going to risk waiting to find out.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Effron, stay there,” Afafrenfere shouted over the noise right as the warlock crossed the threshold into the smaller chamber, “Take down anything that gets too close.”

Effron knew why he was given the order, one-armed and physically weak he’d get in the way more than help the rest of the group strong-arm the lever back into place. He was not comfortable, even as he took up a position in the doorway he flicked his wrist a few times.

No magic came.

He rummaged through a pocket in is robes for spell components, to summon tentacles, to buy some time, but what he found was wasted. He was tapped out, empty.

“No,” he pleaded, trying to find a spark of magic, just a small one, one bolts worth, anything, “No, why did you have to die now?”

Bright flashes of orange-red light as the primordial continued to viciously claw its way out from under the dome of magic and ice. The flashes blinded and dazed the driders and bought Effron a little time, but not much. He glanced over his shoulder at his comrades.

Afafrenfere managed to get a hold of the lever somewhere between the dwarves’ collective grip and the elf’s hands. It wasn’t that the mechanism was stuck, he could tell as soon as he started pulling, but strong force was resisting its replacement, pulling against them like a stubborn animal.

_One quarter_

He could hear Ambergris calling on her god to give her strength, Athrogate stringing together colorful curses in a myriad of languages, some of which Afafrenfere was certain were dead, the girl huffed sharp breaths. The monk found himself somewhere in the middle of all that noise, wishing for an extra set of hands; Entreri or Drizzt, hell he’d settle for Parbid at this point.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, in fact, as his thoughts wandered in that direction the memory of Parbid spurred him on spiteful and vindictive.

He could hear Effron shouting. Something about the magic wearing off and the driders getting close, the monk couldn’t be certain, all of his focus poured into pulling the lever into place. The warlock’s voice sounded closer and closer. Was he giving ground? Why?

Muscles straining, feet barely gaining traction on the floor as they pulled with their collective might; they made progress.

_One half_

The roar of the primordial was louder now, drowning out an unholy screeching as driders got caught in the tendrils that escaped. The ground shook, dust and debris fell from the ceiling. The pull tried to slide them across the floor with its resistance and Afafrenfere had to lean against Ambergris for stability.

Individual sounds were drowned out in favor of a dull hum of just noise.

They had to do this. If they failed now Neverwinter wouldn’t be the only place under threat of destruction. Fear crept up on him, they weren’t ready to do this sort of thing alone, they were mercenaries. They fought battles and killed things and occasionally raided a building for profit; they didn’t save people, and with good reason. They were bad at saving people. Afafrenfere almost gave himself particular notion with the thought, but was distracted when a hand joined his own.

_Three quarters._

“I told you to stay at the-“ he tried to growl, but Effron’s voice was in his ear.

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

Rushing water joined in with the noise, an angry hiss of steam and clattering of footsteps drawing near. The lever, painfully slow in its progress, clicked into place with less resistance as it got closer to home.

The sound of that lever thunking into place was the sweetest sound any of them had heard in a very long time.

“This way,” Athrogate was the first to break the spell, taking off down a dark tunnel and expecting the rest of the group to follow.

They did without looking back.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Running across a roof in Menzoberranzan was dramatically different from roof-hopping in Calimport. The constant threat of ceiling over his head, the occasional hanging rock formation that acted as a wall or a sometimes a tower obstructing his progress completely in a way they never would be able to on the surface under a clear night sky.

The roof also blended in with the surrounding stone so well he nearly skirted himself clear off a few times. Once, Jarlaxle had to catch him when he couldn’t regain his balance quickly enough. He tried to shake it off, but found it nagging at him and slowing him up. He was better than this, his feet were more sure, his nerves more controllable, Artemis _knew_ he was better than this. And yet, he nearly pitched off the roof. More than once.

He blamed the city. The backdrop and distant glow of structures he still recognized made him feel queasy and lightheaded as their memories came back to him. The lightless inkblots of shadows lingering on the edges of his vision, something was in there, sentient and sinister, ready to haul him away.

The assassin tried to shake off the paranoia, telling himself over and over that they hadn’t been spotted, that Jarlaxle wouldn’t betray him again, not here and not now. Not with Drizzt on the line. He tried to force himself to believe it, but it wouldn’t stick.

Artemis tried to put his eyes elsewhere, he thought about Drizzt, about bringing him back to the surface and sticking it to the drow in a way that they wouldn’t recover from anytime soon. That calmed him a bit.

Then Jarlaxle started talking and all that fragile calm shattered again. “You need to be careful,” he said voice soft and humors as always, “if you fall and break I might not be able to put you back together.”

Artemis almost scoffed, but stopped himself.

_What?_

“What does that mean?” he asked, voice more snarl than words.

Jarlaxle was unfazed by his tone, “It means that I’m not loaded to the teeth with healing items. I have a plan in place and I’ll be _damned_ if Quenthel gets her hands on my stuff if things go sour.”

“Wouldn’t your gear _stop_ things from going sour?” Artemis argued.

The dark elf huffed at him as if the answer should have been obvious and he was insulted to find out that wasn’t the case, “I’ve brought what I need for my plan, my backup plan, and my third, fourth, and fifth plans. None of which entail you falling off a roof and killing yourself prematurely because I thought you were a competent assassin that knew what he was doing.”

Artemis smacked him across the shoulder, but, bizarrely, he felt better. Jarlaxle had faith in him, enough faith to be able to leave some of his gear where it couldn’t be snatched up.

His resolve bolstered, but still shaky, the assassin made the rest of the trek alongside the mercenary without incident.

The balcony was smaller than Entreri had expected; more of a shelf outside of the window, really. They dropped down on either side of the tall, glass window and peered in.

“He isn’t here,” Artemis hissed across the space between them, just a little more than arm’s length, “Are you sure this is the right room?”

“This is it,” Jarlaxle assured him, “But the house does give him tasks to perform, he could be busy-“

“Jarlaxle, we’re exposed out here,” a shrill desperation, “we can’t stay out here indefinitely.”

The drow worried the inside of his cheek between his teeth. Artemis had a very valid point. Drizzt needed to show up soon if they had any hope of being successful. He sucked in a breath when a shadow moved at the far end of the room. “He’s here.”

“And he has company,” Artemis added, his gaze focused on the door.


	16. Reunion

He missed his chainmail at times, but the mostly lightweight dark plates of metal suited him and fit to him like a second skin. The new suit was ultimately heavier than his old armor, but Drizzt really couldn’t complain. He stretched, feeling the rings move and adjust to his shifting positions. Part of him longed for a worthy opponent to test it out on, and Andrzel just wasn’t up to snuff.

Scents of warm food and certain perfumed priestess pulled him back into reality. Strong, willowy arms wrapped under his outstretched arms and soft puff of air brushed his cheek. “You’ve dressed,” the priestess whispered against his neck, she sounded disappointed.

“I do have other obligations to tend to,” he replied, keeping his tone humorous and friendly for now.

She made a dejected noise, but didn’t argue. Instead, she guided him to the room’s only table, a small circular thing recently set with a small selection of foodstuffs that reminded Drizzt of his childhood stealing table scraps just to see if he could. The priestess attempted to shoo her slave boy, but Drizzt stopped him before he could leave.

“I’ll need you for something in a moment,” he explained, “it will be easier for all of us if you just stay.”

The woman huffed and demanded the boy stay out of sight for now. Drizzt just smirked at her.

She made it so easy.

With the boy out of sight and therefore out of mind the priestess turned her attention House Baenre’s honored guest. She smiled at him softly and bid him to eat, leaning in close. She ran delicate fingertips across the stipe of exposed skin between his jaw and the high collar of his armor, briefly tangling them in the loose spaces among white braids.

“Are you sure you must attend to those other obligations _now?_ ” She asked, coy smile pulling at her mouth so obviously she had to bite her lip in an attempt to hide it.

This was his best opportunity.

He pulled her in close, clearing a small section of the stone table so he could lean against it as he did so. He watched the priestess’s hand dance along his thigh, the other adjusting the skirt of her dress to expose a little more leg than was decent. The ranger brought his hand to her neck, tangling it in the long white hair at the base of her scalp.

“I have more important things to do,” he whispered, letting his breath pass warm against her skin, “than sire your children, priestess.”

And just like that the spell was broken. The priestess’s eyes grew wide and she tried to pull away, but Drizzt’s tight grip on her hair wouldn’t let her do so. She barred her teeth in a last, futile attempt at bravado and Drizzt couldn’t help but laugh at her.

She didn’t even have time to scream.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The final rush of cold air was a blessing to the two leaning against the smooth stone wall of the outer tunnel. Kimmuriel struggled to stop his hands from shaking and straighten his back but every time he tried to push himself up from the wall his vision went dark and he collapsed against it again.

A dull, pounding pain started at the center of his brain and radiated outward like a sunburst leaving his ears, eyes, and other cranial orifices burning and he was pretty sure there was blood dripping from some of them. He felt as though he’d regained consciousness underwater, sluggish and unsure which way was up and the whole tunnel was spinning, and his stomach lurched.

After a time that could have been moments or days, the agony faded enough to allow him to reorient himself. A wet smacking noise brought his attention to the creature standing opposite him.

Razlaould didn’t seem to be fairing much better, tentacles still, but limbs shaking like leaves in an autumn wind. Another wet smack when it spit a blot of oily blackness onto the stone; some of the substance dripped from its tentacles staining the soft linen of its undershirt in places. It gurgled softly and made a soft groaning noise and Kimmuriel could swear he could see the creature’s whole head pulse slightly.

 _We survived,_ it said, voice wavering and almost too distant to make out.

Kimmuriel nodded and immediately regretted the motion, nearly pitching forward onto the floor. “For now.”

They shared a mutual, and somewhat amused, silence as they continued to recover.

“What are your plans after all this?” Kimmuriel asked, more to distract himself from the dull pounding in his temples than to acquire any information.

 _I am uncertain,_ the creature replied, apparently appreciating the distraction as well, _I will be marked a fugitive for my actions here upon my return, so returning is out of the question. We will most likely have to find somewhere to lay low and hide once Oryndoll gets word of my betrayal._

The dark elf laughed, “Perhaps you could throw in with our lot. I could use a like-minded ally amidst all these mercenary shenanigans.”

 _That is generous_ , Razlaould straightened, wobbled a bit, a slid his coat back on, _but I must decline. I will not bring the long and violent arm of Oryndoll’s law to Menzoberranzan. That is nightmare waiting to happen, I can feel it._

“When you are no longer considered a threat then,” he offered.

_I will consider it._

They both reached across the tunnel and weakly shook hands.

“Hate to disrupt the little romance you have going on here,” Valas Hune’s voice echoed from the shadows, “But the others are on their way.”

Kimmuriel glared at him, but took the healing potion when Valas offered it.

-0-0-0-0-0-

It snuck up on them. When Dahlia later tried to figure out how the creature had managed such a feat she couldn’t figure it out. It was as if it just appeared in an alcove off to the side and out of sight and it rushed them before they even saw it.

Dahlia ran up to meet it with her staff level and used its momentum against it. It snarled at her with thin lips pulled back and sharp, dingy teeth barred and growled something in guttural, halting language. It was made even harder to understand by the deep, jagged, and barely healed stab wound that darkened the flesh of its cheek down by the corner of its mouth.

She knocked it back easily, opening up a space that Tiago gladly stepped into, sword and shield drawn and ready.

The creature didn’t seem to care much who it squared off against, pulling a shimmering sword from a scabbard on its back. It clicked out a laugh and what was probably meant to be an insult before rushing in.

Dahlia took the opportunity to step back and simply observe. She loved the thrill of combat as much as the next person, but her rising suspicions of Tiago had rendered her more cautious. And, if those suspicions came to blows, she wanted to know just what she was in for.

Tiago was a methodical fighter, even against such a frenzied opponent, his movements were calculated, measured, practiced, as if he’d faced off against creatures like this a thousand times before. His shield came up to block every strike; his sabre cut biting lines in retaliation. His feet practically floated on the floor, but his steps were dangerously wide and a bit more uncertain than his hands.

Briefly she wondered why. Every dark elf fighter she’d seen in her short-lived experience with them was sure-footed and graceful, but Tiago was an obvious exception.

The creature took its sword in both bony hands and swung at the drow’s raised shield with both hands. The force caused him to stumble, his trailing leg nearly buckling beneath him and Dahlia had to step in with a raised staff to avoid him being cleaved. He was still her guide in the Underdark after all, even if she believed that she could find a way back out if need be.

It threw its whole weight into each strike, losing energy from the dozen or so bleeding wounds Tiago had scored, and Dahlia let them clang against her staves, building up energy.

There was barely any strength left in the wretched thing when the elf stepped forward, joining the two halves of her staff and sending a bolt of white lightning into the dying thing watching it spasm and seize until it fell away, lifeless.

However, instead of collapsing to the ground like most dead bodies tended to do, it disappeared in a puff of smoke; sword, body, armor, all of it gone. Dahlia blinked at the spot where it should have fallen, drops of spilled blood rising like steam from the floor and vanishing as well.

“Odd,” Tiago said, coming up beside her, his sword and sabre in their proper places, “it did not die.”

“It is not of this realm,” Dahlia said matter-of-factly. “Creatures cannot be killed on planes that are not their own, only mortally wounded and sent back to their home plane.”

Tiago made a curious noise, “That explains what happened to the balor.”

Dahlia snorted at him, “What kind of schooling did they give you in Menzoberranzan? Because extra-planar combat seems like something someone of your status _should_ know. Or do they only teach the brainless how to hit things and not waste time with semantics?”

Tiago scowled at her and shoved her, but his smile was humorous.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They could breathe again.

Muscles sore and hearts still racing, the group of heroes collected into a tighter formation, no longer needing to spread out defensively or break into desperate sprints to make it from one point to another. The dwarves put their weapons away and loosened straps of their armor. Afafrenfere rolled his shoulders and heard the joints pop loudly before loosening.

“That was a challenge,” he snickered and the rest of the group joined him in a round of exhausted, victorious laughter. All but one.

Effron had inched his way to the back of the group, his lip worried to a bright, painful red between sharp teeth, eyes cast down, and face without color. He turned his wand over and over in his hand, looking at it as though it had betrayed him in between fits of worry.

Afafrenfere slowed, letting Effron inadvertently catch up with him so he could examine the warlock more closely.  Something was off about him; missing.

“Effron,” he asked when it came to him, waiting for the warlock to give him his full attention, “Where’s your staff?”

He stiffened, stopping midstride and mismatched eyes widening as he wracked his brain for an answer. His hand instinctively went to the holster on his back, but touched only air and fabric. Afafrenfere could see the muscles in his neck tighten before he groaned loudly pulling in the attention of the rest of the group. “I must have dropped it,” he stammered, “Probably in the primordial when the drider hit me. I-“

The monk felt his heart sink. He’d thought that had been the source of Effron’s initial worry and had intended to make it better, but it seemed that he’d only mortified the taller man more. “It’s okay, Eff,”he said with a genuine laugh and placing a hand on the warlock’s arm, “We’ll just have to scrounge up a better one.” Effron didn’t seem convinced, so Afafrenfere shot him the brightest smile his exhausted state could manage, “We stopped a primordial and took on a whole army of dark elves, what _can’t_ we do?” As if on cue the dwarves nodded and added a few affirmative and reassuring words.

That seemed to get through to Effron and he calmed down a bit, but still looked shaken.

“What’s wrong?” He hadn’t wanted to ask outright, Effron wasn’t one to share anyway and the monk knew he wouldn’t get much of an answer, but when the rest of the group put in some distance from the pair, he dropped his voice and went for it, “What happened?”

Effron shot him a pleading look, as though he wanted Afafrenfere to just _know_ without him having to say it out loud. “I,” he whimpered softly, “I’m not sure yet.”

Puzzled, Afafrenfere almost asked what he meant, but was cut short by calls of greeting from the dwarves. He turned and saw a pair of dark elves, one familiar, having led them into the tunnels, and one less so. Beside them, partially concealed by the shadows was some other creature he’d never seen before; tall and grotesque looking and Afafrenfere took a nervous step back, not even realizing he’d spoken until the words, “What the hell is that?” were floating in the air in his voice.

The question earned him some interesting looks; Effron had that all too familiar scowl his mother used to shoot him when he’d accidentally insulted a lord, the girl and the two dark elves looked amused, the dwarves weren’t looking at him at all but seemed to possess a similar sentiment.

 _Rudeness,_ an otherworldly, sonorous voice scolded so clearly Afafrenfere could have sworn he’d thought the words himself.

Effron leaned in and offered him an explanation, “That’s the illithid. The one that gave us the talisman, I’m assuming.” He sounded almost annoyed, as if the information should have been obvious.

Afafrenfere took offense to that tone, “Well, I apologize for not being familiar with what these creatures _look_ like. I have never seen one before.”

 _You are forgiven._ The sonorous voice said again, snapping the monk’s attention back to the creature. _This time._

The monk wanted to offer a retort, but thought better of it and instead shifted his weight and inched behind Effron a bit.

“So, Oblodra,”  Athrogate broke the tense silence and turned a pointed look at one of the dark elves, “yer gonna be sendin’ us on our way now?”

“Yes. I just need to know where Entreri told you to meet him.” The psionicst rubbed his temples. “And it better not be somewhere in the Underdark, last thing we need is a bunch of novices getting lost in the tunnels with the Chosen.”

“Moonwood,” the dwarf replied, “right at the exit.”

“Easy enough.”

Just as the drow was setting to work the girl spoke up, “Wait.”

All eyes turned to her, but Kimmuriel was the first to address her, “Miss Peldreze?”

“They aren’t coming from Menzoberranzan are they? This Entreri and the Chosen?” She turned to the group and saw their answers, “They may be in more danger than expected. There are githyanki in those tunnels.”

 _What?_ The illithid rounded on her, and the dark elves stared blankly.

“I encountered them on the way here,” She explained. The girl winced and added, “It was irrelevant until now.” Before explaining to the group, “They’ve collected in the tunnels near Menzoberranzan, and in a huge force. I couldn’t get close enough to find out how or what they were looking for, but if your friends get close enough they will be ambushed.”

“Drizzt and Artemis can hold their own,” Effron said, more to reassure himself than to make a point.

The elf shook her head, silver braid swishing behind her, “Githyanki are Astral creatures. Your friends may not see them coming until it is too late, and even if they did, fighting them is not easy. They know neither pain, nor fear.”

“We have to help them then,” Athrogate turned to Kimmuriel, but the dark elf shook his head.

“That is a bad idea. You do not know the way and you’ll probably just wind up getting yourselves lost and eaten.”

“Then what? We leave ‘em?” Ambergris shot back.

Kimmuriel only shrugged.

“How did they even get there? Were they summoned?” Valas turned his attention to the illithid and its servant, “They don’t just come to this plane for fun.”

 _Perhaps the shifting of the planes opened an Astral tear and they poured in before it closed? Someone sent them there as a trap? There are many possibilities and not enough information._ The creature replied.

 A tense silence fell between the members of the group. Normal Underdark fauna would be easy pickings for Drizzt and Artemis on a good day and only a slight challenge on bad day like this, but army of extra-planar creatures? That spelled disaster for the two men and they didn’t even know how far Artemis had gotten if he’d even managed to get to Drizzt at all.

“We can’t just leave them to die down there,” Ambergris was the first to speak again. “Not after all this.”

“Well, I’m not sending you down there,” Kimmuriel replied, “I’ll send you to Moonwood, and if you want to wander aimlessly in the dark and get yourselves killed that’s on you and not me.”

The cleric ground her teeth at him. Her teammates whispered among themselves. There had to be a way; something they could do to find out the progress of their companions, to aid them or even just warn them. They tossed out ideas but anything that involved Kimmuriel having to send them into the Underdark was immediately shot down by the psionicst.

“It is bad enough,” Kimmuriel said, “That I have to build doors with a splitting headache, I am not going to figure out where in the Underdark you need to go to do these things as well, not today.”

Valas nearly offered to aid them and show them the way but stopped halfway through after a harsh look from Kimmuriel reminded him that he had orders to follow.

 _We could do it._ All eyes turned to the illithid, _We know the way, we know how to fight them, and we have nowhere to go anyway. We can get your friends past them, provided they haven’t already been ambushed, captured, or killed._

After a moment’s consideration that seemed to placate everyone, except one:

“No,” the elf at the creature’s side said with a sarcastic laugh, “Hell no.”

A cold wind tore through the tunnel and swept all the energy and what little post-victory joy remained with it. The illithid rounded on her, towering over the girl’s slight frame. The other occupants of the hall watched her expressions change as she carried on a silent conversation with her master, obviously far from cowed by the creature’s apparent anger. A hysterical smile cracked across her face and that was the end of the conversation. The creature grabbed her roughly by the arm, pulling her close before shifting that hand to her head and pulling her head back violently enough that the others close enough could see her pulse through her skin. It lifted her off the floor, tentacles moving in harsh, snapping lines for a few moments before shoving her back down and jarring her feet and legs with the force. She stumbled back, but did not lower her gaze.

_Give us a moment._

Such a simple phrase, yet it sounded so very ominous. Kimmuriel quickly ushered the rest of them back to the camp that the group had set up before tackling Gauntlgrym. He flat out refused to answer any questions about what might be in store for the girl when they came up as tentative whispers behind him.

Valas lingered in the hall a moment longer than the others, clicking his tongue in disappointment.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He thanked the gods that the temple wasn’t very complex. He cursed them for the fact that it wasn’t very well furnished. Not getting lost meant little when there weren’t many places to hide from the strange and grotesque creatures that stalked the narrow corridors and small chambers.

Regis encountered several flights of stairs, each spiraling and going on for ages and he could swear something was coming up the other end and he wouldn’t have time to get away once he saw it and it saw him. Each time this notion proved to be wrong, and the halls were empty and silent save for a bump or footsteps behind a door or up the hall. The halfling tried to remember a place he’d broken into that left him so paranoid and found the results lacking.

There were times he was forced to hide; in cabinets or behind the first open door he came across with a small prayer that whatever was behind the door wasn’t worse than what was in the hall. One room was cloaked in complete darkness, one had a large, sleeping beast snoring in chains in the center of the room, another held rows of cages, and glowing red summoning circle at the far in, and one surprised him.

At first glance he thought Drizzt was being held there, strung up and unconscious in an iron web against the one wall not lined with cabinets and sigils. Regis blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, reminding himself that Drizzt was in the pit.

Perhaps this was some sort of decoy Lolth had set up as a back-up plan. Under scrutiny it wasn’t quite right; this one’s nose was a bit sharper, skin about his eyes darker, ears a little smaller.

Regis made a note to warn Drizzt about a potential double when they got back to Catti-Brie in the Astral plane. For now, he had to continue.

The last room Regis came across at the bottom of his last flight of fear-inducing stairs was obviously the main chamber. Its floor was pale and worn from heavy traffic, pews and other seats sagged from frequent use. The altar at the center was meticulously kept and organized. It made the halfling wonder where everyone was. Were they all assigned tasks in the Spider Queen’s absence? Were they off pursuing their own endeavors while she wasn’t there to lord over them and keep them in thrall? Whatever it was, he was thankful. That nothing stood between him and the flaming pit that housed his friend.

Although, getting across a pit covered in webbing and guarded by demons wouldn’t be the easiest of tasks on its own, he reasoned. But getting chased on the way out didn’t bother him as much as getting chased on the way in.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Kimmuriel fiddled with a ring on his finger as he listened to Drizzt Do’Urden’s newest group of companions argue amongst themselves over a course of action. He was glad to have it now, the pounding in his head was difficult to focus around and having to construct so many portals in such a short span would have worn him down significantly. He chuckled quietly to himself, hearing them bicker over whether they should save the two men off frolicking in the Underdark, or if they should wait it out like they were told.

The psionicst already knew how this argument was going to play out. They would eventually concede that going into the Underdark was a foolish endeavor for them and they’d only wind up getting lost or worse, and they needed the rest anyway and Entreri was a competent adventurer. He’d send them to the Moonwood and shut the portal behind them and never have to put up with this tomfoolery again if he could help it. No, his plan was to get back to Menzoberranzan to pack his things and retire to Luskan until Gromph called upon him for interment and then he’d flee to the south or the east as fast as he could.

It wasn’t a glamorous plan, but it got him out of here and way from all this madness and headaches.

“We’ve reached an agreement,” one of Do’Urden’s party said. Kimmuriel hadn’t really bothered to learn their names, he didn’t really care. “We’ll go with the original course. Hope for the best.”

Kimmuriel nodded, approaching the group as they collected their gear and confusedly eyeing the pair of bags that weren’t theirs.

He was about to open the portal when Valas elbowed him in the side.

The young elf and her illithid master were approaching them. She didn’t seem to have maintained any new injuries in the several moments they had been alone together, her eyes were clear and bright, if rimmed in red and focused intensely on a random point in space. She was pale, tightly wound, and emotional, but kept it in as she crossed the room and lifted her pack from the floor and slung it over her shoulder.

 _We are going._ Razlaould explained, _we will help your friends, if we can, to get through the tunnels unscathed._

Nana only nodded in agreement, jaw too tight for words and her teeth grinding together.

Do’Urden’s group wasn’t thrilled with that knowledge, but they weren’t hurt by it either.

“Good luck,” Ambergris offered, the others joining in the sentiment as Kimmuriel was finally allowed to open the portal and get these people out of his hair.

Once they were gone, Razlaould provided him with information about where in the tunnels it and its servant would need to go. Those two were much easier to send off.

“And now for us. Home again?” Valas smiled, straightening his gear.

“That’s the plan.”

Hune laughed at him, “Oh, you think things are going to go to plan and we’ll be reunited with Jarlaxle at the headquarters and there won’t be bounties on our heads and-“

“Shut up.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

She ran a hand along his neck, tangled her fingers in his hair.

Jarlaxle was sure that Artemis would lose his composure and just bust into the room to break them up. He could see the human’s jaw tense and nostrils flare out of the corner of his eye, his skin losing color and his eyes growing dark beneath his deepening scowl. His lip curled in snarl as the priestess’s affections on Drizzt were reciprocated, broad white teeth and sharp canines catching the light in strange, unnatural way. Jarlaxle almost placed a hand on the assassin’s tense shoulder, only to realize a moment later he didn’t have to.

Drizzt’s affections turned hostile rapidly. The priestess’s eyes widened in terror at something he’s said and the ranger’s smile went from coy to wicked so seamlessly it was as if he hadn’t changed at all. He was holding her in place and she was pleading with him, shaking her head as much as she could as if to deny whatever accusation he had made.

The ranger was not convinced by her argument. Artemis and Jarlaxle could both hear her gasp just before her face made swift and violent contact with the table. The first blow seemed to have broken her nose, the next knocked out several of her teeth. The two onlookers didn’t bother to watch the rest, only looking up again when they heard the sound of her lifeless body being tossed to the floor in a bloody heap.

“Boy,” Drizzt called, and slave came running, stopping short at the sight of his mistress dead and still oozing blood and other fluids on the woven rug, “remove her.”

Without a comment or a question, the boy took both rug and woman from the room.

Jarlaxle felt a cold chill in the pit of his stomach. Between his observations and Artemis’s accounts and theories he thought that he had an idea of what Drizzt was afflicted with. This display was proof of just how wrong he was. He looked to Artemis, only to see the assassin looking as crestfallen as he felt; eyes closed, head down, teeth hidden now. He reached a dark had toward the human, but couldn’t make contact as the man swept away and into the room.

“Drizzt,” Artemis kept his voice stern, his gaze level, even when the ranger lit up at the sight of him.

The dark elf rose from his seat, meeting the intruder halfway with arms open. “Artemis,” Drizzt’s smile was bright, “what took you?”


	17. Nostalgia

_“That’s not what this is and you know it.”_

_Artemis knew he couldn’t be as sure as Drizzt’s tone implied he should be. Dahlia had just been a crutch and so had the rest of the group until very recently. What could possibly make him believe that the ranger wouldn’t continue this pattern of behavior? What was to stop this dark elf from using him for what he was worth and then tossing him aside when he grew bored or found something new like so many of his kin? Could he trust this man? He’d trusted him before, with his life even, and had not been let down._

_This wasn’t the same, though._

_He had something to lose here._

_“Do I?” He hadn’t meant to sound as worried as he did._

_Some persistent, angry part of him had expected confrontation; a bitter and vicious argument to erupt from his lack of trust, to have phrases like “after everything we’ve been through,” and “I thought you’d changed” to be thrown at him as if past experience didn’t warrant his trepidation. That it was somehow his fault so many things had gone wrong before and he should just get over himself and succumb to the moment._

_What he actually got surprised him. A pair of strong hands pulled him close enough that their foreheads touched, thumbs of those hands rubbing gentle, comforting circles just behind his ears. Drizzt’s voice was soft and warm against his skin, soothing, and not the least bit frustrated or confrontational, “You know that you can trust me more than anyone else.” When Artemis didn’t relax at the claim, he continued, “That even when you deserved to die I would not hurt you, even if it was in my best interest.”_

_He knew what Drizzt meant immediately. The Shard’s tower, when he’d laid down his life in bitter resignation at the ranger’s feet and he just walked away. How angry he had been at Drizzt then._

_How grateful he was for the example now._

_“Why would I do so now when I need you the most?”_

_And that was it. That simple phrase was the hook that sunk into him that night; an irresistible force pulling him closer, deeper, and Artemis was convinced that should he survive the night he would live to regret this decision. But before his thoughts could regain their coherency they were already too close, half-dressed, and too far from the door for the assassin to throw Drizzt out and be done with all this._

_But still, a part of him wasn’t sure._

_Even when the ranger refused all options to back out, to leave without consequence, much to Entreri’s confusion. When Drizzt pulled him close, lost control over his own voice, and trembled, warm and inviting, against him. When their skin cooled and sleep took him-_

_Artemis was not sure this was real._

-0-0-0-0-0-

The assassin raised an arm to halt the ranger’s progress before he got too close knowing the wide smile and friendly demeanor was a lie. That didn’t stop Drizzt from looking hurt as he backed away, as if nothing had been wrong until this moment.

“Artemis?” He tilted his head to the side in confusion, a lock of hair too short to be caught up in the braids that held the white strands back hanging in his face; he eyed the lock angrily for a moment before continuing, “Is something wrong? I thought you’d come here for me.”

For a moment, perhaps even less than that, a surge of hope warmed the assassin; a warmth that he would never be able to justify. In that less-than-moment, he wondered if the display of violence had been a panicked response. That Drizzt was back to himself and just playing the game until reinforcements arrived so the Baenre’s wouldn’t turn on him and all Artemis had to do was hold out his hand and say “Come with me” and they would be gone from this place. Artemis wouldn’t have to kill him and drag him away, no confrontation, and no violence this time. However, the assassin quickly realized that wasn’t true.

It was the manic glow in his eyes that gave Drizzt away.

“Drizzt,” Artemis struggled to keep his voice even; he wasn’t even entirely sure how to approach this, all he was certain of was that the Drizzt he knew might still be somewhere in there. That there might be a chance Catti-Brie had been wrong. Maybe he didn’t have to kill him to get that Drizzt back. “Please, listen to me. I’m here to help you. I don’t want a fight.”

The elf seemed so close to himself when silent, and yet so far from when he spoke. “I don’t want to fight you either, Artemis. We are not enemies anymore.” The smile was returning, “I know I said some pretty hostile things in Gauntlgrym and I apologize for that. I was not myself.” He paused a moment before adding, “I wasn’t aware I needed help, though. I seem to be doing just fine, if a little bored.”

Entreri felt his heart sink and hollow him out. “Drizzt, you aren’t safe here.”

The ranger pointed to the floor, red streaks of blood darkening against the grey stone and the occasional tooth or strands of hair standing out stark white among the mess, “Oh, this? I’ve taken care of this. Well, for now. They will try again, of course, until the Sundering actually comes and they realize that they need me to hold their position of power.”

The assassin shook his head, wondering how Drizzt’s naïve nature managed to remain even in madness, “No, they won’t care. They never do. All they need is for you to sire one child and that’s it.” He clenched his fist at his side and heard his wrist pop, “And when you don’t submit willingly, they _will_ force you.”

Drizzt arched an eyebrow with a mocking laugh, “Let me guess, you speak from experience? Based on the priestesses _you_ rejected?”

The jab hurt much more than Artemis had ever expected it to. He would have preferred it if Drizzt had just stuck a knife in his stomach and gotten it over with.

“Yes,” Entreri admitted “Chosen or no, they will find a way to get what they want. Please, come with me. Leave this place before they have a chance to even try.”

“Your concern is touching, but I think I can handle myself,” Drizzt crossed his arms, annoyance eating away at the smile on his face, “This is my homeland, these are my people. I cannot leave them in the dark, even if they threaten me. I was chosen for this task, and I will not slink away.”

It was Artemis’s turn to laugh, “The Drizzt I know hails from Icewind Dale.”

The ranger rocked back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but didn’t seemed too off-put by the statement. “Icewind Dale has been kind to me,” he replied, a hint of resentment in his voice, “it is the place my friends called home when they lived. But Menzoberranzan is my motherland, and as cruel as it has been to me, it always will be. Much like what Calimport is to you, Artemis. Unkind, but still home.”

“Nostalgia helps,” the barb wasn’t as sharp as he would have liked it to be.

“You would still stand and fight for it if you knew it was in danger, why do you stop me from doing the same?” annoyance was turning to anger now.

“Because you aren’t yourself,” Artemis argued, “if you were and you chose do this anyway I would not stop you.”

The dark elf scoffed, “Oh? Then what am I?”

The human hesitated.

-0-0-0-0-0-

_“I’ll be fine.”_

_It was soft, whispered into the bare skin at the crook of his neck, a hint of laughter. Artemis could feel the relief coming off the other man in sheets. He nearly laughed, feeling it added to the strangeness of the day._

_The brush with death hadn’t frazzled his nerves as much as the sight that preceded it. A woman, frail and sickly, lying on a small makeshift bed on the floor; her hair listless, skin grey, eyes sunken in. He tried to wake her several times before she stirred. Before she told him to leave her, that her son would be better off without the burden she placed on him, and he shouldn’t put himself in danger for a lost cause. How she raised a tired hand to stop his arguing just before the rafters fell, pushing him away with her limited strength, but thanking him for his kindness all the while._

_He wasn’t sure why he lied to Drizzt about the encounter. Or why he lied to the boy._

_The lie seemed less painful somehow._

_And yet, he did not feel better for lying. No, it was the sympathy. The story Drizzt gave of family and sacrifice, of reasons why people would do the things they did, that offered him the most comfort. That soothed his anxious soul. It was the loose embrace that grounded him, not his own stubbornness. Briefly, he wondered how things would be if the ranger still slept in a different room; what nightmares would plague him that night._

_But that was irrelevant now, the soft puffs of breath against his skin reminded him. He felt a gentle smile tug at his mouth when it dawned on him that those three little words, “I’ll be fine,” weren’t just for Drizzt, but they were for him too, and his response would act in a similar way._

_“Of course you will.” And he meant it._

_He felt Drizzt pull away a bit. When he turned, the soft, warm smile the elf gave him was humbling. That even after everything: the fight, their history, the arguments both large and small, every wound and insult suffered at the hands of the other, after all that they could still end up here, that this man could still look at him with sympathy- No, with affection. It was humbling and solid and held him in place like stake._

_Artemis didn’t know what possessed him to do it, but he pulled the ranger in close and kissed him. He felt him smile into the kiss and just melt into it._

_It was different than ones Icewind Dale. It was different than Port Llast. It wasn’t a whirlwind of emotion and a desperate need for company. It wasn’t luck or happenstance._

_When the night wound down, they collapsed against the sheets each content with where they were both separately and together. This was simple arrangement; they were lovers now. It was official, and it was real._

_It wasn’t until he felt Drizzt’s breathing slow to slumber against him that his contentment gave way to worry. A mistake, a lie, something temporary or shallow, anything else at of all of things he had expected their relationship to become wouldn’t have caused this worry._

_But this was real._

_Real things could be broken._

-0-0-0-0-0-

As he contemplated his answer, he wondered why Drizzt hadn’t attacked him yet. Why the ranger hadn’t instigated a fight like what had happened in Gauntlgrym. Where were the guards? Surely they would have heard something by now. Perhaps they were being watched and some sinister thing was waiting for the opportunity to strike.

Drizzt was looking at him expectantly.

“You are sick,” Artemis finally answered, his voice soft and low, “You’ve been sick for a while now, and you’re just getting worse. It so bad now you can’t even see it for yourself.” He laughed, and Artemis didn’t recognize his own voice for a moment. “The Baenre’s even know, they keep you under lock and key, with a handler, in a barely populated part of the complex.”

“Shut up.”

The assassin, knowing he’d struck a nerve, kept going, “Do you wonder why? Ever? Do you even remember the episodes after they happen? Do you see them coming or do they just sneak up on you? The headaches, the nosebleeds, hallucinations, sleeplessness, and nightmares. They still plague you.”

“I feel fine,” Drizzt snapped back, friendly attitude completely forsaken, “It’s gotten better now that I’m here. I can handle it now.”

“Can you?” Artemis didn’t even try to hide the taunting smirk on his face, “It laid you low before, what’s to stop it from happening again, and again, until it kills you or pushes you too far?”

He saw Drizzt’s jaw grow tight, his gaze drop.

“I can help you,” He didn’t like how pleading and desperate he sounded, but he hoped it would strike a chord with Drizzt’s better nature, “I _want_ to help you, and I’ve found something that will work.”

“What is it?”

Entreri gave the best disarming smile he could muster under the circumstances, “Something I can’t do here, I need you to come with me.”

The ranger took a step back; a wild animal wary of the armed man holding bread under its nose, “Tell me what it is first, and I’ll consider going with you.”

“Trust me.”

“No.”

It was so quick, so sharp, and it felt like a white-hot iron in his ear. Apparently the look of injury was easy to read on his face, because Drizzt took a step forward, asking over and over what this remedy of Entreri’s was and growing more and more accusatory every moment until Artemis took several quick steps and put his hands on the drow’s shoulders and shook him with a harsh and barking, “Stop.”

Drizzt snarled at him, “You ask me to trust you, but you won’t tell me the truth?”

“It’s a powerful magic,” he confessed, “to stop the symptoms, to keep you stable. It’s your best option, please take it.”

A silence settled between them.

An eternity passed in that dimly lit room. Heartbeat thrumming loud as a rumble of thunder in the assassin’s ears, he felt lightheaded, dizzy. He knew he was running out of arguments, out options short of drawing his weapons and dueling the ranger as he’d attempted so many times before.

And every time, the cynical voice in his head reminded him, he’d failed.

There was nowhere to run this time.

The ranger’s shoulders relaxed under Artemis’s hands, comfortable with contact and the closeness. “I’ve been so bored here Artemis,” he sighed his voice taking on a slow, droning quality. Like something was speaking _through_ him, “So isolated. They come at my beck and call, but they do not speak to me, they do not challenge me. They do not give me the action I crave. Yet they do not let me go.” Lavender eyes that had been trained on Artemis since the assassin had walked into the room lost their focus; that faraway look that had filled the human with dread so many times in recent weeks. Drizzt swayed a bit in his hands.

The sudden change in mood jarred the human slightly. His heart skipped a beat and all he wanted to was shake the man in front of him until he saw reason or blacked out. Whichever came first.

The drow attempted to drift closer, “ _I miss you_. I miss the surface. The days blend together all solitude. And it is quiet in the dark.”

“Drizzt,” Artemis hoped the sound of his voice would pull the ranger back into focus, “please, come with me, let me help you. I have not let you down yet.” Drizzt blinked at him, a few more times than was necessary, “let me relieve you of this sickness.”

Like a candle being snuffed out, Drizzt’s strange manner vanished and he was back to himself, stepping away and out of Artemis’s grip. “Sickness? If we’re being honest here, Artemis, I’ve never felt better. It’s as though the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. And if this is ‘sickness’ then perhaps I don’t want to get better.”

Briefly, Artemis Entreri considered handing over his dagger and letting the dark elf stab him with it repeatedly.

He was now convinced it would hurt less.

-0-0-0-0-0-

_“I’m scared.”_

_He sounded so small. He sounded broken. Overwhelmed, perhaps would be the better choice of word, but Artemis could only focus on how things were breaking around him. The screaming he had woken up to and the breakdown that had attracted the worry of the others. For so long, Artemis thought Drizzt was just losing sleep, plagued by nightmares no worse than his own, and succumbing to the symptoms of that sleeplessness._

_How wrong he had been. He cursed himself internally for not recognizing the signs sooner, for not taking this more seriously. How bitter he felt for thinking Drizzt was fine when he wasn’t._

_The human hid the anger as well as he could, thanking fortune for the darkness and that Drizzt’s position at his side meant that the ranger couldn’t see his face. He rested his cheek against the elf’s hair, the strands had lost their luster and softness over the last few days, and laced their fingers together._

_Drizzt’s hand was shaking._

_Eventually, the elf relaxed against him, not quite sleeping but closer to Reverie than wakefulness; a consequence of exhaustion, surely._

_Artemis craned his neck, trying to get a look at the man at his side, even if the darkness stole some of the detail, only to realize that he’d have to shift and wake him to do so and just settled back in place. The position and the angle aggravated his bruised hip, but he bit through the ache if it meant Drizzt got a few minutes of much needed rest._

_He had forgotten how painful falling down stairs was._

_Thunder rumbled like the distant roar of a dragon. Artemis felt it rattling in his chest._

_He knew it was only a matter of time before everything fell apart, and if he was being honest with himself, he was surprised it had taken so long. What would happen next, he wondered, would Drizzt completely break and get himself killed? Would someone else crumble? Who was next?_

_Artemis distantly hoped it would be him._

_An entire life spent on the edge of disaster. Always on the outside, watching other people crumble or die, sometimes both but never him. No, he was beast of burden made of stone and metal. He could be beaten, he could dragged along or left behind, but could never quite have enough damage done to break. Madness refused him, death outright laughed at him, and he was left, spectating, chained to the face of the cliff to watch all the others fall._

_And this time the one falling was Drizzt._

_Artemis felt the hand in his squeeze gently, and the body against his shift closer, trying to steal his body heat on the cool and rainy night._

_He resolved then to try; to move despite the stone, the break from the chains and reach out, to catch at least this one. And if he couldn’t stop Drizzt from falling, perhaps the ranger would be able to pull him down too; kill him or drive him mad like all the others._

_If he failed at that…_

_He wasn’t sure what he would do._

-0-0-0-0-0-

He should have known better. A more rational Artemis would have kicked himself for being so optimistic, so hopeful, so naïve as to think Drizzt’s current state could be talked out of. But somehow the stars aligned somewhere between the location and the idea of having to take the ranger on in single combat again and Artemis found himself still hoping. Despite everything he tried to be a voice of reason to a man without.

It was a fruitless endeavor to put it lightly and the longer he tried, the more Artemis came to understand the nature of his mistake. He wondered if it would have just been easier to draw his weapons and attack and take whatever hurt and betrayed insults Drizzt decided to throw at him.

But, even if it had been the easier route, it was not the one he took. Now, the assassin found himself little more than arms’ length from the ranger, watching him succumb, yet again, to his madness in the den of their enemies and only a simple shout separated Artemis Entreri from the Baenre guards.

And a metal chest piece stood between him and the goal of his mission.

There was no way to convince Drizzt to leave this place, and even less a way to convince him to remove his armor. Frustrated, his hands drifting toward his weapons, Entreri grew tired of the game he had started.

“Drizzt, you will come with me,” a biting seriousness had returned to his voice. His moments of vulnerability long passed, “Even if I have to take you by force.”

The dark elf seemed to perk up at that, as if Artemis had proposed some grand adventure, “Are you threatening me?”

“Not if I don’t have to.” Boiling anger steadily began to fill the void his optimism had left in the pit of his stomach. “But when we started this thing, we made a deal, I intend to keep my end of it.”

Pale brows knitted together in a moment of confusion, “Deal?” Then, the realization, “Oh, I remember. My _armor._ Protecting me from the slings and arrows of this world.” A somber laugh, “It seems like so long ago now. I did not expect you to take the role so seriously.”

Drizzt circled the assassin as he continued, “But I have to wonder: what is it you intend to protect me from? The dark elves know their place in this, or they’ll learn. I’m living in the lap of luxury, with even the priestesses at my beck and call. I don’t feel I need protection, and yet here you are.” He leaned in close, smiling when he noticed the human had turned with him as to not have his back exposed, “From what do I need protection, Artemis.”

The taunting way the ranger drew out the syllables of his name made Artemis want to punch him square in the nose. “You’re digging yourself into a deep hole, Drizzt.”

“If anyone’s down a hole right now, Artemis, I think it’s you.” He stopped his circuit, back to the dim glow of the city pouring in through the window. “And I must ask: why? Why are you here? Why all this just for me? Better question: where are the others? Why am I not being struck down with bolts or rushed by dwarves- Oh, wait. You came _alone._ ”

He paused, a long uncomfortable silence filled the air. Entreri didn’t bow under the weight of that silence, didn’t shift his weight, didn’t avert his gaze, and resisted all of those little tells that he knew were the kiss of death.

“You came all this way, alone, just for me.” The mock flattery was insulting, “How do you justify that to yourself? Artemis Entreri, does nothing for anyone but himself, would never go back to Menzoberranzan willingly, mister cold, callous, and _selfish._ How does he justify this?” A sharp, barking laugh. “Love?”

“Oh, that’s cute,” the assassin bit back, “that’s the first place you go? ‘Love’? It seems the romantic heart of Drizzt Do’Urden still bleeds inside you.”

“What then, wise guy?” he wasn’t amused, “This is a rather grand gesture for just the short end of a bargain.”

“I have my reasons.”

“Oh we’re being all dark and mysterious now?” Drizzt laughed, “And I’m the cute one. Come on, Artemis, you can tell me. I can keep a secret.”

The assassin drew his weapons. This was it, the end of the argument, the last straw. There was no way to stop this from coming to blows, and he had to rely on Catti-Brie’s word and her magic to make things right. The chances he would win the duel were slim, he knew, but he had to try. If he failed, Jarlaxle still stood a chance, knowing about the sword’s magic and knowing it was hidden beneath the assassin’s cloak. For a while he had considered having Jarlaxle stand against Drizzt at the end, to throw the fight and let the mercenary surprise him, but he’d rejected the idea. This was his fight, his endeavor, his burden.

_His_ lover that needed saving.

“You really want the truth?” he said, making the question sound more like a threat.

Drizzt mimicked the human’s stance, drawing his own swords; Twinkle, and slender pitch black blade with a sliver edge. “Oh, please, enlighten me.”

“Your wife sent me.”

An angry snarl on Drizzt’s dark face was the last thing Artemis saw before the globe of darkness obscured his vision.


	18. Conviction

The roiling bed of lava below him singed the hairs on his feet as he traversed the wires: black strands appearing smooth from a distance, but were actually jagged and felt as though one were walking across a field of broken glass. Regis didn’t mind too much though, a lifetime of traversing the world with bare feet had left him immune to such tortures.

It was a straight shot from the temple to Drizzt, probably for convenience the halfling guessed, but it was a long shot across an open area; no cover, no places to hide, nothing to use as an improvised weapon for an uncomfortably long distance. In his head, Regis tried to plot out an escape plan to get them back before Catti-Brie reopened the portal and not get both of them killed in the process, but the deeper in he went, the more difficult escape became.

He had no idea if Drizzt’s body could experience exhaustion or pain on this plane. Regis could feel both acutely according to the tired ache in his body and the frustration he felt at the idea of backtracking through the place double-time. Judging by the way the ranger was trussed up against the cliff face, his shoulders, knees, shins, and back may take issue with moving too much or too quickly.

“Drizzt,” Regis called when he thought he was close enough to be heard, “Drizzt?”

No response.

A cold ball settled in the pit of his stomach, “Drizzt?”

The halfling closed the gap quickly. The ranger was still limp in his restraints, eyes closed, head tilted to one side. “No,” Regis breathed, raising his hands to Drizzt’s face. His skin was still warm, his breathing slow and deep. Regis shook him. “Drizzt! Drizzt, wake up.”

Vibrations shook the crisscrossing wires beneath his hairy feet. Nervous, Regis looked around; a pit fiend, most likely Drizzt’s jailor was making its rounds across the pit. “No,” Regis cursed, shaking Drizzt a bit more violently. The creature was a long way off, if he could wake the ranger now, they might be able to start their escape before being noticed.

However, Drizzt was still unresponsive.

“Damn you, Entreri,” the halfling cursed, “I thought you were better than this.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

The new sword in Drizzt’s left hand sent shockwaves up his arm, forcing him to spin with the blow instead of the block and counterattack he had planned for the third time. When the shaking stopped Entreri could feel a dull ache in his shoulder.

At this rate, this battle was not going to end well for him.

He spun, pivoting quickly, and using his leftover momentum to slam into the ranger and knock him away, earning a slash to his armor for the motion but gaining some distance between them and room for him to breathe.

Drizzt laughed to himself, the sound muted by the heavy breathing of both men, “Look at you. Doing the dirty work of a woman you don’t even _like_. How does it feel?”

He’d dispelled the darkness shortly after the initial onslaught, preferring to see his enemy, to taunt him, to watch him dance at the end of his string and then cut it. Drizzt wanted to see him fail again with his own eyes, not behind a curtain of blackness.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Entreri wasn’t about to give in to Do’Urden’s taunts. If there was one thing he’d learned across the years fighting the ranger, it was that anger would be his undoing.

The two circled each other, neither willing to close the distance and each trying to goad the other into doing so with angry looks and tense gestures.

“How does it feel to always be someone else’s weapon? Pook’s spear thrown across the world? Vierna’s net? Jarlaxle’s dagger or Alegni’s sword? How about Catti-Brie’s bow? Oh, I cannot imagine how that one must sting.” He chuckled, a dark, frightening sound coming from someone who used to be so friendly. It felt like needles against Artemis’s skin. “Well?”

“I make my own choices now.”

“Do you?”

Drizzt closed the gap with practiced and measured movements, so unlike the fighting style Artemis had grown so familiar with, that he had studied, and perfected his defense against all those years ago. Every movement was rehearsed, done through years of practice, each technically flawless but lacking the randomness, the fluidity, and the improvisation that made the ranger a much more difficult opponent. Entreri found himself reminded of sparing matches, practicing sets and running exercises with ranger out on the streets of Port Llast, a small crowd gathering around them and wagering with raised voices, than any of their actual battles. And Artemis found this reminder unsettling, another sign that this man was not the Drizzt he knew.

The ranger spun him in circles around the room, weapons a blur of black, sliver, and blue on the edges of his vision as he hunted for an opening, a flaw in the technique, a break, anything at all, and came up empty. Drizzt’s quick feet and quicker blades keeping Artemis on a perpetual defense that grew tiring as it dragged on.

 It would take something desperate, he knew. Something unpredictable, something Drizzt wouldn’t expect from him to win this and Artemis was short on ideas at the moment, still dancing about the lavishly furnished prison with the man he was trying to save and not get his head lopped off. The environment didn’t exactly play to his advantage; the only loose hanging curtains were by the window and slightly obscuring the line of sight from the door to the far end of the room closer to the door than to them, the bed was wide and heavy its linens and blankets too large and cumbersome, all the other furniture was at least partially stone, nailed down, or weighed too much to be moved.

Set up so Drizzt couldn’t use it against his jailors.

The only option that seemed remotely open to him was the still-set table Drizzt had shared with the priestess, but a thrown fork wasn’t as much a distraction for a seasoned veteran like the drow.

That black and silver blade skimmed a bit too close to Artemis’s armor when it broke through his defense with surprising force. That assassin quick stepped away, back-peddling for distance, but the elf stayed on him.

Artemis felt his foot swing wide on still-damp patch of blood, and went with it skirting Drizzt’s path and managing to push the elf forward a bit more with a push to his shoulder and a boot to his back. Drizzt stumbled, trying to pivot, but pitched too far forward to change direction without stopping, buying Artemis a few seconds out of the ranger’s vision.

That’s when it hit him: what would be the last thing Drizzt would expect him to do?

Use the same trick twice.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Catching himself with bloody hands when Andrzel threw him to the floor, the slave boy left flakes of dark red and brown just on the edge of the luxuriously embroidered rug that dominated the Matron Mother’s bedroom floor. He whimpered softly, keeping his head low and trying to hide his face behind his short hair and praying to whatever gods might have heard him that the matron didn’t feel the need to take out any anger on him. It took all of his willpower not to shudder when he heard her approach him from across the room.

Quenthel arched a fine eyebrow at the sight of the bloodstained and shaken boy, her focus shifting to the weapons’ master with a pointed stare, “What is this?”

“Do’Urden’s handiwork,” Andrzel answered, his scowl deepening. “This boy belonged to my sister, and now I found him both without a mistress and disposing of the body on Do’Urden’s orders.”

“Is that so?” the matron asked. Between them, the boy weakly answered, thinking Quenthel’s question was directed at him, and was kicked squarely in the ribs for it before being shooed away to stumble and trip over himself all the way out of the room.

When the door finally closed again, Andrzel spoke first, “You know what we have to do about this.”

Quenthel pulled up a chair, “No, please, enlighten me.”

The weapons’ master rocked back on his heels. “He’s on to us,” he said after a moment’s hesitation, “there is no way he will willingly give us what we want now that he knows.” He took a deep breath, “And it’s not as though we’re treating him like a prisoner. We outfitted him with a weapon, with new armor. He’ll put up a fight and-“

“And you don’t think you can take him?” Quenthel offered.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she laughed, “but it is a real fear to have. Very few who stand against Drizzt Do’Urden in fair single combat live to tell the tale. In fact I can count them all on one hand.” Andrzel’s scowl faltered nervously for the briefest of moments, but Quenthel caught it, “And it doesn’t help that he’s still armed and covered in metal, right?”

The anger on the man’s face melted away to confusion. “I don’t-“

“Of course you don’t,” the matron snapped, “You’re too short-sighted when it comes to these things. Why in the world would I give my _prisoner_ a means to defend himself against me? It seems rather foolish does it not? Why would I waste the time and the resources to give him something so detrimental to me in a gesture of good faith? Not to mention how long that armor was in production, am I wrong in recalling the number of complaints I received from you while the pieces were being made before Do’Urden was even named the Chosen?”

Things were beginning to fall into place for Andrzel. “What does it do?”

“What do you think it does?”

If he was being perfectly honest, Andrzel didn’t have a single idea what a full suit of armor might do when it was enchanted to work against its wearer, but he had no doubt it was horrible.

Quenthel pulled a small piece of jewelry from her hair, a thick lock falling loose about her neck in its absence, and tossed it to him. It was a hexagonal piece of bronze, completely flat on one side and heavy in his hands. On its top side, a large black spider took up the space, bulging out, life-size, from the bronze, its legs curving toward the sharpest points at the top and bottom of the designs; a bright red ruby rested on its abdomen.

Andrzel ran his thumb across the surface as he weighed it in the palm of his hand, “How does it work?”

The matron explained that the item had a word of activation, that saying the word twice would deactivate it, and it had a short range of effect, but the magic was potent enough that once it started, it wouldn’t need a wide range. Andrzel toned her out once he got the details he needed, formulating a plan of attack in his mind.

“You have an idea?” She asked pulling his attention back to her.

“I do, Matron.” He slipped the inactive item into a pouch on his belt.

“There is a cell waiting for Master Do’Urden in the dungeon. You’ll know what to do when you get there.” She leaned back in her chair and watched the man leave.

Andrzel leaned against the door, forcing it closed and taking a moment to ready himself. Do’Urden was probably waiting for him; a gauntlet thrown between them when he decided to kill the weapons’ master’s sister. A rematch, only this time, Drizzt wouldn’t be victorious. For a moment, Andrzel felt a pang at the thought of not giving a fighter like Drizzt Do’Urden a fair fight, of not taking him on at his best and proving to be the superior warrior through skill.

The moment was short lived.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The world outside was dark, startlingly so, as if deprived of not only light, but color as well; the way the world looks when one’s eyes have adjusted to darkness when wandering their home in the middle of the night. The sun, totally blacked out at its center, cast a dim, grey light upon all that the group of four could see. The forest beneath them was still and eerily silent. In fact, when they listened, they could barely make out any sound at all, despite being surrounded on all sides by nature.

That frightening silence sank into their bones, leaving them cold until it was broken by the sound of a dwarf collapsing heavily to the stone with a loud groan, “Sweet victory.”

Uncomfortable laughter rippled through the dwarf’s companions.

“Bah!” Athrogate snorted, pushing himself up into a sitting position, “Don’t give me that, ye pansies. We won our fight, Neverwinter is safe, an’ now all we’ve got to do is sit an’ wait for Entreri and Do’Urden to show up.”

With that somewhat comforting sentiment, the rest of the group managed to find it in themselves to relax as well; Ambergris and Effron settling to the stone, Afafrenfere stretching some of the weariness from his form and surveying the area.

“I wasn’t expecting him to put us right on top of the entrance,” the monk called over his shoulder as he leaned to peer down the side of a nearby ledge.

“All the better,” the cleric shot back, “we can just set up our camp here. None o’ that travellin’ business.”

A moment passed and it seemed they were all in agreement.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” When six tired, and slightly angry, eyes turned to Effron he flinched, “It’s just- Drizzt is the Chosen of Lolth, right? When Artemis takes him from Menzoberranzan the dark elves are going to chase them. If we set up our camp here, there’s a chance we won’t be prepared when they arrive, and I don’t know about you but I’d rather not wake up to a bunch of enraged, fanatical drow.”

“An’ what if one of ‘em’s injured, eh?” Ambergris replied, “ye expect them to get all the way to wherever we set up camp ‘fore I can get me hands on them? I can’t just pump people full o’ me magic right now, I need to use bandages and salves. Those things are time sensitive. Wait too long, an’ someone might be spikin’ a fever, or losin’ a limb.”

“Or both,” Afafrenfere added, earning himself a slightly betrayed look from Effron, who had expected the monk to be on his side, “What? I’ve seen it happen before. It was one of the reasons we wanted Ambergris to travel with our group so badly back when I was a mercenary. First-aid and herbalism can only do so much to help the injured.”

“He’s got a point though,” Athrogate piped in before they could gang up on the warlock, “I’ve seen what drow fanaticism can do, and it’s not something ye want stepping on yer hair when it’s down.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully, loose braid shaking as he did so, “We could work in shifts. Someone out here keepin’ watch and stoppin’ any bleedin’ and takin’ on whatever force the boys drag up behind ‘em, while the others take to camp somewhere closeby, but hidden.”

Effron nodded quickly, “It’ll give us a safe place to put them if they are hurt, and a couple of us should be enough of a distraction. Especially if the illithid and its girl help us like they said they would.”

Athrogate laughed openly, “I doubt it boyo, even if the creature _does_ keep to its word, mind flayer logic can’t compete with drow priestess insanity o’ that magnitude. Those bitches might move the whole mountain just to find out where Artemis and Drizzt are.”

“All the more reason to find a safe place to hide then,” the warlock quipped, looking pointedly at Ambergris.

The others all looked among themselves with looks ranging from annoyance to resignation before settling Ambergris expectantly. She was the cleric, if anyone came out of this injured they would be her problem first, and thus, it was her call. The dwarf held her head in her hands and thought for long time before eventually settled on, “Okay. It makes sense. One group stays here, the other goes to set camp and we’ll work in shifts after then changin’ one person at a time. Who’s going first?”

They looked amongst themselves again. All were tired and sore, the effects of a hard-won battle making their very bones ache. Athrogate sighed and raised a hand to his beard again scratching the same spot and getting a concerned glance from Ambergris. After a moment, he paused. The limited color he possessed began to drain from his face, his eyes widening steadily as a broad hand found a severed piece of his beard, clipped by a dark elf’s sword in the fight.

Afafrenfere could hear his heart beating in his ears as he grabbed Effron by the belt and started pulling him along. He shot the cleric a smile when her attention turned to them for a moment. “We’ll do it,” he said with forced cheeriness before turning around and pulling the warlock behind him and down the steep slope toward the entrance.

Effron resisted at first, head tilted in confusion, “Wait, what? I didn’t-“

The monk pulled him close, “You do not want to be involved in this, trust me.”

“It’s just hai-“

“Shh!” Afafrenfere elbowed him in the side, “Dwarf beards are big deals. Amber’s a dwarf, she can handle him. We, however, cannot; just trust me on this.”

As if prompted, Athrogate began shouting. A loud, and slightly offensive, mixture of curses, insults, racial slurs, and dwarvish, that had the two non-dwarves picking up their pace toward the cave in unison. Ambergris’s voice picked up alongside her man’s, demanding that he calm down before he caused a rock slide, though Athrogate didn’t seem to care.

Afafrenfere pulled Effron beside him into the mouth of the cavern, reducing the shouting to only a slight echo. “Understand?” he laughed.

“My word,” Effron turned to him, “How did you know he would react that way?”

The monk ran a hand through his hair, shaking loose some of his damp curls before brushing them out of his face, “Ambergris’s beard used to be really long, until one of the members of our group that had never travelled with a dwarf before thought it would be funny to prank her. He trimmed some of her beard and expected her to get really torn up about it. Maybe even cry.” He started snickering to himself, “He’s dead now.”

“Oh.”

The sound of the raging dwarf and the woman trying to calm him grew distant as the two went to find a place to set up camp. Soon enough, silence fell over Effron and Afafrenfere like a blanket, and they knew it was safe to come back out and find a place to rest and wait. They settled on a small outcropping above the cavern where they could see anyone exit, but it would take a moment for the pair to be seen. They settled in for a long and boring wait.

 

-0-0-0-0-0-

Drizzt recovered from his stumble quickly, whirling around, blades ready, but Artemis hadn’t closed in. Instead, the assassin had chosen to put the table between them and stared at him. His dark brow scowling, breath coming in short, angry puffs through his nose, his jaw tight, a perfect vision of anger.

The Artemis Entreri of old.

Drizzt could help but smile, straightening his back taking long, graceful strides around the table. Artemis watched every movement with that cold, murderous gaze Drizzt had grown to miss over the years. The assassin only made a few short steps to get away, teeth barred in a snarl.

The ranger chuckled at him, “Looks like you’ve backed yourself into a corner, that’s a shame.”

The human’s shoulders slumped; his eyes lost some of their focus. He looked exhausted, and for moment Drizzt felt a pang in his chest, but it passed quickly. “Tired already?” the drow asked, “I’m just getting started.” When Entreri sneered at him, Drizzt added a flippant, “You have aged my friend, and not very gracefully.”

The gap between them was rapidly closing, but Artemis wasn’t attempting to speed up a retreat, didn’t even raise his weapons at first. He looked sad, resigned to his fate, his gaze sinking to the floor. It was as though he expected to be taken prisoner.

But Drizzt had other plans for him.

Artemis must have realized Drizzt’s intentions, he took a few more steps back and brought his dagger up, not to the ranger, but to his own throat. Wanting him alive, the drow let his black sword fall to the floor and rushed to stop him.

Just as Entreri had expected him to.

As soon as Drizzt’s hand touched Artemis’s arm, the assassin flicked his wrist, cutting the edge of his cloak, dropping his sword and catching the now-loose fabric in his hand in one fluid motion. He sucked in a deep breath through his nose and spit a mouthful of awful wine right in the ranger’s eyes.

“At least I move forward in time,” the assassin growled.

Before the ranger could ready himself, the assassin rushed forward, his dagger clanging to the ground as he took hold of Drizzt’s sword-arm, and hooked a leg behind the dark elf’s knee sending them both tumbling to the ground at an awkward angle. Just awkward enough the ranger would knock his head against the stone table and have the wind knocked out of him when he hit the floor, the assassin’s full weight on top of him.

“Instead of wallowing in my past.”

Artemis kicked Twinkle far away from Drizzt’s hand making sure to keep most of his weight on the elf. Not that it mattered, really, the blow to the head had dazed him, and bought Entreri some time to deal with the elf’s new plate mail.

Of course they would give him plate.

The human cursed under his breath, quickly reaching for his dagger, when fumbling with the laces at Drizzt’s sides was taking too long for his short patience to allow. The piece was heavy, Artemis struggled to lift it from the elf’s body once he’d gotten it unlaced, but it wasn’t stiff or awkward. It made an awful noise when the human tossed it aside.

By the time he’d managed to get the armor off, Drizzt was starting to come around, his head lolling a bit and a low groan escaping him between deep, uneven breaths. Artemis rose, planting a foot solidly on the elf’s stomach, ready to stomp down should the need arise, and pulled the enchanted scimitar from the scabbard on his back.

The swirl of magic in blade began to glow as it made contact with the open air, the single amethyst in the hilt sparkled like a sly smirk shared between the weapon and its master. Artemis took his time to aim the blow, not wanting to miss in the last second and make his whole mission for nothing, as he’d seen many rookie assassins do in his youth. One poorly aimed thrust and Drizzt Do’Urden would be dead at his feet.

At a later time Artemis would mull over the reasons why that was, for the first time in his life, the last thing in the world he wanted in that moment. He raised the blade.

He had expected Drizzt to try and get away if he came fully back, try and trip him up or knock him off. Never would he have thought that Drizzt Do’Urden would try to stop a falling blade by grabbing hold of it, sharp edge digging into his fingers.

“It’s over, Drizzt.” Artemis warned.

A smirk pulled at the corner of the ranger’s mouth, “How?”

The human’s jaw tightened for a moment, “You lack conviction and purpose.”

A sharp barking laugh tore through the elf and he wound up coughing and cutting his hands more, “Oh? And how does it feel to be the victor because I lack conviction and purpose? To finally get to pierce my heart and watch me die?”

Even in a position of defeat, Drizzt was still taunting him. Artemis wondered briefly if he had behaved like this once upon a time. Annoyed and tired of being belittled, the assassin pressed his weight onto his raised foot before lifting it and stomping hard on the ranger’s stomach, opening him for a strike, and plunged the blade into his heart.

The look of pain and betrayal almost looked genuine in the moments it lasted before the elf’s purple eyes fluttered closed and his body relaxed.

“The same way it felt last time,” Artemis huffed in response.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He hadn’t expected Drizzt to go down so easily. In his mind he saw the ranger lashing out and tearing Artemis apart while he was still vulnerable and without his blades, but no. Drizzt hit the floor hard under the assassin, and Jarlaxle could hear the breath get knocked out of him even from the distance of the balcony. It took Artemis entirely too long to manage the ranger’s chest piece, and the wounds Drizzt gained to his hands trying to stop the sword made the mercenary wince; those would be trouble to heal.

Strangely, when the human plunged the enchanted blade into Drizzt’s chest the ranger went limp, but didn’t die, just relaxed. There was no blood when the sword was removed, no wound at all. An interesting magic imbued in the blade.

For a moment, Jarlaxle considered stealing it on their way out.

Artemis hesitated at Drizzt’s side, lingering and looking him over concerned look on his face. The mercenary knew that someone like Artemis Entreri would realize the urgency of the situation and act quickly. And yet, his hesitation drew on for an uncomfortably long period of time. Jarlaxle was just about to say something, to force Artemis’s attention back to reality when the human stood and scanned the room before dashing about and collecting their dropped weapons. After a moment the human called, “Jarlaxle?”

It was quiet, but firm. Trying to see if the elf was still there and hadn’t abandoned him.

Had Jarlaxle been with anyone else he would not have responded at the risk of blowing his cover and betraying his involvement in the kidnapping to any potential listeners. Had this occurred years ago, when they’d been partners, he’d have let the assassin look like he’d been betrayed and set up for failure and execution for his crime. But, something tightened painfully in Jarlaxle’s chest and he couldn’t resist the sharp, hissed “Hurry,” he responded with.

He felt a rush of relief when he saw the human’s shoulders relax as he turned, spotted the elf, and tossed the ranger’s swordbelt across the room to him.

The urge to hurry the assassin on, or even step into the room and help him, only grew stronger as he saw the tired, worn-down human struggle to move his elf across the room. Jarlaxle managed to swallow it though, occupying himself with keeping his portal open and ready for when Artemis finally made it to him.

A quick peek over his shoulder to check the man’s progress and Jarlaxle’s heart sank. He knew that he couldn’t be seen in his position, but he saw the door to the bed chamber open and a familiar face step inside.

Oh no.

Artemis hadn’t noticed yet and bought Andrzel time to find a more advantageous position.

He could have hidden. He could have run back to the roof, waited for Artemis to be captured and snapped up the unconscious Do’Urden while Andrzel hauled the human away to dungeons and demanded assistance with the Chosen.

And yet he did none of these things.

_“Artemis!”_


	19. Awake

_Darkness._

A deep blackness like a thick sludge that filled every available nook and cranny of space around him, that pooled in his eye sockets and weighed him down, constricting his chest and making it nearly impossible to breathe. He struggled, gasping against the weight and that terrifying sludge.

_Pain._

A sharp, jarring pain that shot through his torso every time he attempted to breathe or move away from the black stuff, it was as though a bolt of lightning was shooting down his chest and arm. It brought tears to his eyes and made staying conscious even more of a struggle. If he was even conscious at all, it was hard to tell around all that darkness.

Something soft, gentle, and easy touched his shoulder. A hand, he recognized it as, a concerned hand resting upon his shoulder trying to wake him with a gentle shake.

Then, a less gentle shake, and he felt something white hot and jagged rip into his chest, shearing his breath and the darkness away as he jolted into reality, gasping and sweating, so abruptly the woman at his side jumped a little in surprise.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” he heard the Shifter’s voice say.

Draygo blinked a few times, trying to get his bearings. His eyes burned, his throat ached, and dull thudding drowned out most of the quieter sounds that should have reached his ears. “What-“ he tried to ask, but only succeeded in making an agonized rasping noise.

“Drizzt Do’Urden nearly ended your life,” the Shifter’s voice laughed. Draygo tried to sit up to look at her, but couldn’t find the strength to hold himself up for more than a moment. Instead, he just craned his neck. “You are most fortunate he did not succeed.”

On the edge of his vision, Draygo could see bandages wrapped around his torso and arm stained a bright red. He coughed, wincing with the action. “The boy?”

“Escaped,” she said, her form lingering at the edge of the bed for a moment where he could see her. She was dressed for the road. “Along with their friends around the time Do’Urden wounded you.” When Draygo only stared at her, she continued, “He sliced you up pretty well, but it was the blade to the chest, slicing your heart, that we were sure was going to kill you, but you’ve held on,” her enthusiasm lessened with every word, “like a fighter. Everyone was quite surprised.”

The warlock scanned the room, only to find it empty except for the woman and himself, “Where-?”

“They left.”

“What?” He rose off the bed a little bit and immediately regretted it when his breath left him and his vision darkened.

The Shifter sighed, tapping her foot impatiently and adjusting her weather cloak. “When they saw your wound and realized it was going to kill you those that could sought work elsewhere. The rest,” she trailed off and shrugged. “All I know for certain is that none of the people that worked for you wanted to be here when the other Shadovar Lords decided they wanted to auction off your belongings, or just take them.”

“They’re _all_ gone?” Draygo felt his wounded heat sink.

“They left your things don’t worry. They just wanted out.” She laughed, “Smart of them to do so given what will happen when you finally die. Judging by the look of things, looters will soon be coming.”

_Disloyal vagrants,_ Draygo cursed to himself, “What about you?” he breathed deeply, attempting to fit as many words into a single breath as he could “Why haven’t you left?”

The woman pondered a moment, “Professional courtesy.”

The necromancer nearly laughed, “You waited for me to awaken?”

“I was waiting for you to die,” she corrected, “and now that you’ve awakened and I’ve told you all that has happened while you flirted with death, I will take my leave.”

It took some effort, but the warlock managed to push himself up onto his elbows and stare at her. She lingered in the open doorway, a mask of mild surprise obscuring her features for a moment. “You would abandon me here?” he accused, his voice containing little authority. He took a deep breath, “After all that’s happened? With the debt to Szass Tam over our heads?”

“Over _your_ head,” the Shifter snapped, “I was but a messenger and I intend to stay that way.” She turned to leave, “You will pay your debts on your own, Lord Quick.”

And she was gone, the door swaying slightly in her wake, but not closing. The sudden silence was jarring for Draygo and, desperately, he tried to fill it, “Shifter!” he called, leaning forward and trying to see more of the hallway, “Shifter! Get back here! You have to help me!”

He pitched too far forward and his hand slipped from the edge of the bed, sending the old and beaten necromancer to the floor with a painful _thump._ Draygo gasped and sputtered, still attempting to call for the Shifter even when his throat rebelled against him. He coughed and retched, each action resulting in an agonizing tightness in his chest, and a worrying darkness edging his vision.

So this was the fruit of his labor. His attempt to prepare for, and uncover the secrets of, the Sundering, the decades wasted preparing an apprentice, gathering what he thought would be loyal allies and employees to maintain the castle, all for this; to lie wounded and dying on the floor of his castle’s infirmary with not a soul left to aid him in his mission. Draygo coughed, dark speckles of blood dotting the stone floor. This was how it ended, felled by his own quest.

Grinding his teeth, the warlock pushed himself up onto his elbows and knees, forcing himself along the floor.

No.

He was a master necromancer, a Shadovar lord, he was not about to be stopped by some apprentice or some dark elf Chosen, or the world ending. He hadn’t fallen because he wanted to be prepared, Draygo realized as he crawled, terribly slow toward the door, but because he’d prepared improperly. He didn’t need to survive the end of the world.

He needed to rise again once it had ended.

With very ounce of strength Draygo Quick possessed, he reached the door and pulled himself to his feet.

It wasn’t going to be an easy task, he knew, but he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Now that he’d awakened, dying was no longer an option.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He could feel the magic pulsing through the sword and up his arm. Bright auburn light shining from the blade dimmed, as if being drained from the weapon and into the elf’s chest. Just before it went out completely, Artemis pulled the sword away, tossing it to the side and checking Drizzt for lasting injuries.

The worst of the cuts seemed to be on the ranger’s hands, and aside from a few small nicks and bruise on his chest, he was unharmed by the blade. His breathing was deep and even, his skin warm, and his body relaxed but not dead weight; almost as though he was sleeping. Artemis took a deep breath, knowing Catti-Brie’s magic protected Drizzt from physical harm was reassuring.

The idea of him being unconscious for an undeterminable amount of time was not.

“Damn it,” he hissed, pushing off from the floor to gather up their scattered weapons. “Jarlaxle?”

The elf took a step in from the balcony, his voice urgent, “Hurry.”

Drizzt’s scimitars were the first weapons the assassin retrieved, tossing them across the room to Jarlaxle and hearing them clatter to the floor on the other side of the portal, followed shortly by his own saber and dagger.

Slipping his arms under Drizzt, the human attempted to lift and carry him only to realize this new suit of armor he’d been given by the Baenres made him too heavy to lift. He didn’t have the time to remove the rest of the pieces, and even if he did that left Drizzt without any protection for whatever journey they had between Jarlaxle’s hiding place and the surface. Frustrated, Artemis ground his teeth and pulled the limp elf along.

Artemis cursed. Of course Drizzt would make even saving him difficult, it seemed to be a pattern with the two of them; he attempts something involving Drizzt and despite having a plan, everything becomes a mountain of difficulty.

He really shouldn’t have been surprised at this point.

Silently, Artemis thanked whatever gods had been responsible for him not having to carry Drizzt very far before being able to stop and wait for him to wake, an idea which raised a whole new set of questions: would Drizzt be himself again or still this madman he’d turned into?

Would he come back at all?

The thought left a cold, empty feeling in the pit of Artemis’s chest.

He tried to shake the feeling off and force himself to focus. He was almost out of the woods, now wasn’t the time to get distracted.

But it was too late, he’d already missed several key changes that a more intent assassin would have noticed: a door opening on the far side of the room, the gentle movement of a curtain when that same door was quickly, but quietly closed. The only thing that saved him from being caught completely off guard was a sharply hissed, “Artemis,” Over his shoulder.

That warning bought him enough time to set Drizzt back down and begin to draw his weapons before being smothered in darkness.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“What is this place?”

The tunnel opened up into a large, spacious cavern criss-crossing walkways starting low and spreading up to the ceiling and leading to a variety of side caverns in a range of sizes. From where they stood, Dahlia could look down and see most of these tunnel entrances. She crinkled her nose at the foul, acrid odor that drifted up to her when she peered over the edge to get a better view.

“The Acid Aerie,” Tiago answered, “Used to be a week’s walk from Menzoberranzan, and it’s probably going to be the last place we’ll have a chance to rest.”

The elf arched a delicate eyebrow, “ ‘Used to’?”

The Baenre smiled at her, “Westward expansion is a beautiful thing.” He leaned over the edge and pointed to one of the lower tunnels, its edges worked smooth and the bridge extending out from it was clearly crafted from stone and metal. Even from this distance, Dahlia could make out the soft glow of magic through the gem replacing her eye. “That tunnel is a straight shot to the outer edge of the city. No turns, no doubling back, no bending around other cities.” He paused, smile turning wicked for a moment, “It cuts the journey significantly.”

“By how much?” Dahlia tried to figure it out in her head, but quickly gave up.

“Should take us a less than a day, our time, or maybe two full ones if you keep lagging behind,” Tiago set his shield against the wall and slid down to the floor beside it.

She genuinely surprised, “You cut it by that much time? How?”

He laughed, “You forget, the quickest way between two points in the Underdark still takes several days. This isn’t like the surface where you can just cut through a forest or take a path other than the road. The only way is by road or by magic here…unless you can plow through stone.”

Dahlia nodded, settling down on the floor across from him in the narrow tunnel. “So, just like the dragon cut our journey significantly, this tunnel will do the same?”

“Exactly.”

“But,” she questioned, “Why make a tunnel to here? It doesn’t seem like much?”

Tiago rolled his eyes, unenthused about giving a history lesson, but he did it anyway, “Once this place was cleared a hundred years ago of the corbies it became a sort of crossroads. These tunnels, once worked and extended by slaves wound up leading to a variety of places my people could utilize. It got even busier as a trade route after the War when our sister cities fell and we had to set up our own trade with the other races.”

“Why not settle here?”

“Technically it’s in svirfneblin territory.” He made an amused face, repeating the word “technically” with a humorous edge.

They shared a quiet smile. Tiago leaned forward and reached across the short distance to Dahlia’s hip, taking hold of their shared bag of stolen Neverwinter army gear. With a solid tug, he pulled it and set it between them, using it to prop up his feet. Dahlia did the same.

“So, once we get there, what are we going to do? Just appeal to your Matron?” the elf asked after a moment.

The drow shook his head, having thought about this on the road, “No, we can’t go straight to her. She’ll never listen to me directly.”

When he didn’t elaborate, Dahlia prompted him with a curt, “Well, then who will?”

“No one, willingly,” Tiago replied without hesitation, “Where do you think we’re going? Some trusting little town like the ones in Icewind Dale?” He snorted, “But I know people with some pull that I can get to listen.”

“How much pull?”

“House Baenre’s weapon’s master,” he suggested, “though he might not believe us at first, Andrzel’s the type that could be beaten into submission if we tried hard enough. There are a few rogues and mercenaries in the commons that owe me some favors that we should probably start with though. We’ll get in there; it may take some doing though.”

Dahlia chewed her lip, “I have a question: what if Drizzt has already been captured, used, and killed by the Baenres? We’ve been on the road for ages now and haven’t gotten much in the way of information other than what Arunika gave us. Hell, he could have been captured and recovered by his party by now and we’d never know. We could be walking into a trap.”

Tiago considered this only briefly, “If Do’Urden’s friends came to get him, they would still have to traverse the tunnels to get out. They’d want something quick, something short so they could get to the surface where they could hide more effectively from Matron Quenthel’s army. This is the route we took. We would have passed them by now.”

“What if they took an alternate way?”

“Two dwarves, that bumbling warlock, and the Chosen of Lolth and you think they’re going to spend a second longer on dark elf turf than they have to? Honestly?” Tiago shot back. “Besides, we’ll be able to get more up-to-date information from those commoners that owe me one. If he’s not in the city, we’ll be able to find out where he went.”

Dahlia relaxed, comforted by the idea that they weren’t walking directly into the lions’ den like she’d originally been led to believe. At least Tiago wasn’t _that_ stupid. “So-“

“Enough questions,” he interrupted, “we need to get rest while it’s still an option. The next time we’ll find peace like this is when we’re back out of Menzoberranzan.”

She took the hint, shifting a bit to get comfortable on the hard stone and pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders. “Not much farther now,” she sighed, more to herself, but that didn’t stop Tiago from hearing her.

“You’d be surprised.” He replied, but there was no hint of mockery in his tone, “But you will get your revenge, as will I.”

Dahlia looked up to see him smiling at her, it would seem that even his best attempt at softness still possessed the wicked edge his race put on everything. She tried to match his expression, but her heart wasn’t quite in it.

There were still so many pieces missing.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Artemis came out of the globe of darkness in whirlwind of steel, keeping Andrzel back, as to not wind up tripping over Drizzt while he was still unconscious. He heard the sound of grating metal against stone over his shoulder, but refused to worry himself over what kind of distraction that could have been or for whom it was intended.

The spinning and sweeping motions of Andrzel’s fighting style allowed for Entreri’s sharp and quick movements to prove a real advantage, even though he couldn’t score a solid hit. The assassin tried to take him down quickly, before exhaustion set in and reinforcements arrived, but he just couldn’t get through for a lethal shot.

How many more would come? Were the guards organizing or waiting right outside the door for the word to be given?

Would they be merciful and just kill him here or try and drag him away to the dungeons?

A new fire ignited somewhere in the pit of Artemis Entreri’s chest. He would be damned if he let the dark elves take him alive.

With a flick of his wrist, the assassin flipped his dagger in the air, and struck out when it landed in his hand. The sudden change of tactic allowed him to slash a bright red line across the weapons’ master’s face, from one side of his nose almost to the ear, just below his eye.

He wouldn’t score a second blow like that.

The ache in Entreri’s shoulder intensified, and he could feel the grip on his saber loosening. He needed an opening.

They danced about the edge of Andrzel’s darkness globe. The assassin prevented the elf from pulling him in effectively enough to warrant the globe being dispelled to reveal an empty space on the floor beside Artemis’s discarded cloak and the chest piece he’d removed from the ranger; the bands of black metal had tightened to an impossible size.

Drizzt was gone.

Artemis felt a cold twinge of fear that Jarlaxle had just snatched up Drizzt and left him.

But then the assassin saw his opening. It was brief, less than a second’s worth of surprise distracting Andrzel from his opponent as he registered that the Chosen of Lolth was missing. The tense flex of jaw and neck, the shift in his sharp brow, was impossible Entreri’s well-trained eye to miss.

He snapped up his cloak, catching it with a pair of fingers after kicking a fold and sending the fabric into the air and tossed it over the weapons’ master’s head. That second of surprised turned into four seconds of reorientation, the same amount of time Artemis took to kick the drow in the chest as hard as he could, knocking him into the curtain at the entranceway, pulling it from the ceiling and trapping the elf under a tangle of fabric.

The assassin bought himself less than a minute to cross the room back to the window. Hopefully, Jarlaxle would still be there and Entreri would be able to escape. If not, he could hop the balcony and fall to his death.

Either option was better than a drow dungeon.

He could hear the rustle of fabric and then the sound of a blade cutting through it and boots behind him. It wasn’t that far, there was no way Andrzel would be able to catch up in time. Artemis kept reminding himself of it over and over as time slowed around him, drawing out and making a few feet of distance feel like miles. Even when he saw the silhouette of that god awful hat against the dim glow of the city, freedom still felt so much farther away than the prospect of imprisonment at his back.

Jarlaxle’s encouraging smirk came into view just long enough for Artemis to watch it fade away.

He fell. White bolts of lightning shooting across his vision and a burst searing agony in his left leg, followed by terrifying numbness and sparks of impact with the floor that knocked the breath out of him. Fighting disorientation, pain, and the nauseous chill that shook him, the assassin put the floor under his back and swung his sword in from of him defensively, catching Andrzel’s blade as it came down.

Artemis blocked the first few strikes as best he could, feeling the blade sink closer with every hit. He was losing strength quickly and the numbness in his leg demanded that he do something about the wound immediately.

Desperate, Entreri swung his saber to meet Andrzel’s weapon and knocked the incoming blade wide, sacrificing his grip on the weapon. As it clanged to the floor, the assassin planted his good leg and forced himself up and forward, catching himself on the drow’s belt and slipping the blade of his dagger in the space between the armor covering his thigh and groin, demanding the weapon to feed as soon as it sank in.

Strength returned almost immediately, bright sparks of sensation like the early stars of the night sky came to life in the once-dead limb only to scream at him as soon as they were given voice. A sudden, stabbing cramp in his thigh as the muscles attempted to knit together. Artemis’s heart pounded against the pain, as if more blood faster would provide relief.

Andrzel wrenched him out of the human’s death grip, and kicked him to the floor. Entreri almost made a second attempt when a voice called over his shoulder:

“Stay down!”

Even with his vision blurring and his heart pounding in his ears, Artemis couldn’t mistake the pair of daggers that soared over his head and _thunked_ into the weapons’ master. One sticking in his armor just below his ribs, the other catching a gap at his shoulder.

“Jarlaxle!” Andrzel shouted, about to close the gap, but stumbling from the wound in his leg.

The assassin didn’t need to be told that now was the time to get away, but Jarlaxle told him anyway. He took up his sword, and scrambled to plant his uninjured leg under him. He pitched forward, trying to get his left leg to cooperate only to have it give out, still unable to support him. Only this time, he didn’t hit the floor.

“I’ve got you,” Jarlaxle huffed when Artemis unceremoniously fell against him, and he wound up half helping, have dragging the human along, “stay with me.”

An untarnished dagger whizzed by Entreri’s ear just as Jarlaxle heaved him into the portal.

“You’ll pay for this!” Andrzel’s voice screamed at them as Jarlaxle’s second dagger, still dripping with the weapons’ master’s blood came flying after them, nicking the brim of the mercenary’s hat just as he shut the portal.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Berellip woke up to being violently shaken by her sister in a hastily set up infirmary far from the primordial chamber.

“Wake up, you idiot,” Saribel was shouting, having grown tired of trying of anyone and everyone she encountered over the course of trying to clean up all the ice, water, and drider bits surrounding the primordial.

“What?” the priestess tried to blink through the throbbing in her head, “What happened? Oh- wait,” she sat up, fury blocking out the pain, “You got me attacked by that elf girl again.”

“Me?” Saribel snarled at her, “How is that _my_ fault?”

“You,” Berellip growled, “and your ridiculous need to stop those people from doing something that would have _saved the complex_ _anyway-“_

The other priestess slapped her, “For the last time, the point wasn’t to stop the complex from being saved it was to _do it ourselves_. If we let a bunch of outsiders waltz in here and do our job how does that look when the report gets back to Zeerith.” Berellip tried to argue but Saribel cut her off before she could try, “One of those Baenre men would talk and you know it. Just because Tiago turned exile doesn’t mean his followers suddenly become loyal to us. Or did you forget that?”

Berellip leaned forward, hanging her head and taking a few deep breaths.

“What were you thinking releasing those driders?” Saribel sighed, “The illithid knew we did it on purpose.”

Her sister lifted her head, scowling confusedly. “Wait what?”

Saribel blinked at her, “The illithid knew we released the driders to hinder them. It accosted me and nearly ended me in its anger, even when I admitted that they were beyond our control. It probably pried it from your thoughts after the girl laid you low.”

Berellip said nothing for a very long time, so long that he sister attempted to prompt her not once, but twice and still received no response.

“What aren’t you telling me, Berellip?” Saribel growled, taking the other priestess by the collar, “Out with it now and it might end well for you.”

“I didn’t free the driders,” she blurted, “I just thought that we should use them. They would be killed and no longer a threat, the soldiers would think we did it on purpose, and it would increase our chances of success.” She forced her breaths to be deep despite the urge to hyperventilate, “I didn’t free the driders, Saribel, the creature should have seen that. Maybe it did and decided to take you out anyway. I don’t know.”

Saribel sank back down into her chair at Berellip’s bedside, “If not you then whom?”

The priestess shook her head, cropped hair dancing around her face, “I don’t know. I just got the report that they had been freed.”

“Tiago’s men?” Saribel suggested.

“I was told the locks were broken. Tiago’s men would have picked the locks, and probably fled if they thought they could be implicated but they stood with us, remember?”

Silence dragged on between them.

“Do you,” Berellip worried her lip a bit before asking, “Do you remember what Ravel used to say when he was in charge? About things going missing and all of those accidents not being accidents. Do you think this is what he was talking about?”

Saribel shook her head, “We haven’t had an incident in years. Why would they start up again now? And why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I thought it would solve itself and it would have been in your best interest not to know the truth.”

Saribel scowled at her again, but didn’t push the subject.

“Could the ghosts have done this?” Berellip asked after a moment.

“We have wards in place for a reason, Berellip,” Saribel reminded her, but she made a note to herself to have the wards checked immediately. If the dwarf ghosts had managed to get back into the complex beyond the throne room this could spell disaster for what was left of the drow settlement. Especially now that it needed to be rebuilt.

She glared angrily at her sister as she rose, “I’m going to tell you this once: do not put me in that position again. The only reason you’ve gotten away with it this time is because I don’t want Zeerith getting suspicious when a report comes in that two of her children have been murdered over the course of a tenday. Do you understand?”

Berellip nodded.

“Good. Stay here. I have to oversee the cleanup and I don’t trust you on your feet yet.” And with that, she swept away.

Berellip watched her go, waiting until her back was turned to glare furiously until she was out of sight.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Jarlaxle let the assassin sink to the floor gently, letting him lie on his back and get some of the chill from the stone as he surveyed the damage, careful not to bother the injury too much while the human was still awake. It was a nasty wound, though it would have been nastier without the healing properties of Entreri’s dagger.  He propped the limb up on his lap and started a valiant attempt to stop the bleeding.

“You went back for me,” Artemis said, breathless and confused.

Jarlaxle smiled at him, only to realize that the human wasn’t using his dark vision and couldn’t see him. “You were not in this alone, my friend,” he said.”

“I’m not your friend,” Entreri growled.

“Of course you aren’t, my apologies.”

There was pause while the human considered the meaning in those words. His thought processes were slowing down in the absence of immediate danger. “Why did you stay?”

“That is conversation for another time,” Jarlaxle replied, the wound was worse than he thought, parts of the cut were jagged, torn from the tiny serrations in Andrzel’s blade. He sighed.

 He had honestly thought that Artemis would have made it out before Andrzel could have struck him.

“Is it bad?” the human’s voice was weak. “Do you have the items to heal it?”

Jarlaxle cursed himself for leaving his items behind, an action he wouldn’t have done had anyone else been injured.

He was right to do so, the drow tried to remind himself, particularly now. Quenthel would know about this, about his and Artemis’s involvement and he’d have to lead her off the trail. And Jarlaxle wasn’t about to let a Matron capture him while he was fully stocked with rare magical trinkets. He’d done that enough times in his youth to learn that once the Matron took them, there was no way he’d get them all back.

He’d warned Artemis not to get injured like this. That he wouldn’t have the means to heal him if he did, and yet.

He should have acted sooner.

“Jarlaxle?”

Artemis’s voice pulled him back to reality, “I’m sorry?”

“Is it bad?” he asked again.

Jarlaxle wanted to answer, but he didn’t, not directly, “Don’t worry about it right now. Get some rest, we’ll talk later.” He felt the human relax and drift off quickly, his breathing deep and even. Soon after he managed to stop some of the bleeding and attempted to wrap the thing with the fabric of his undershirt.

He laughed quietly to himself. For months on the trip to Vaasa he and Artemis had fought about the necessity of shirts. This was the first time he’d been grateful that Artemis had won.

The mercenary fished through the pockets on his belt and dug out a single flask of a weak healing potion. He looked to Artemis, then Drizzt, and weighed their injuries against one another.

Artemis’s leg?

Or Drizzt’s head and hands?

He only had enough for one.

-0-0-0-0-0-

_Light_

A bright, eye-burning orange engulfed his vision and stung his eyes as soon as he opened them. A swirling mass of firey reds and yellows blurred together with that base orange. Lava, he realized it was after a moment, and then there was warmth on his face and in his eyes, it became more difficult to breathe as more of that hot air made it to him. It scorched his dry, parched throat and he couldn’t help but cough against it.

_Numbness_

A tingling, as if a hundred spiders with sharply pointed legs were skittering about his arms and back. He felt heavy and tense, exhausted; ages of movement without rest were taking their toll now of all time. The urge to let his eyes drift closed and sleep was difficult to resist. He struggled to make his eyes focus on something.

A temple of Lolth was not something Drizzt wanted to wake up to. The ranger was startled by the sight, the sudden heat and noise of the lava beneath him and strange tones that stopped him from falling in made as they oscillated beneath him. He tried to move, but was stopped by restraints pinning his arms to the stone behind him.

Drizzt felt a surge of panic well up in him.

What was the last thing he remembered?

The ranger struggled, trying to work his way up to what brought him here: the group was going to go to Gauntlgrym to stop the primordial from escaping. They trekked through the woods without much incident. He remembered handing over two of his most precious possessions to Artemis in case something happened to him, and then-

And then, nothing.

He looked around, eyes darting across the pit trying to find some means of escape or a jailor, some hint as to what brought him here, or where he even was. He’d never seen this place before and he never wanted to see it again. When his eyes glanced upward, he saw it. The forest fire he’d been dragged through in his dreams.

Lolth had placed him here.

The surge of panic grew stronger and suddenly Drizzt couldn’t catch his breath. He whimpered softly and small hand covered his mouth. “Shh,” a voice whispered in his ear, “Be very quiet, don’t draw attention to yourself.”

The ranger blinked a few times. The voice sounded familiar; a middle tone, a bit nasal with an accent.

“Regis?” the question was muffled by the hand over his mouth, but the halfling understood.

“Yeah, Drizzt. It’s me. Cat sent me and Artemis to save your butt from the Spider Queen,” he explained, “I need you do everything I say if we’re going to get back in time, okay?”

Drizzt nodded.

“I need you to stay calm, and move as soon as I cut you free.” Regis cut the ranger’s wrists free and came out from behind him. “Follow me.”

He struggled to his feet, jagged edges on the wires cutting into his hands and feet, his arms were weak and sore from being stuck in the same position for who knew how long, but once his feet were under him, Drizzt found his balance and managed to stay upright.

Regis was already on his way to the temple.

“What? No.” Drizzt took a step back, “I’m not going in there.”

The halfling grabbed him by the wrist before the ranger could retreat anymore, “Drizzt, you have to trust me. It’s the only way out. Cat’s waiting for us in the forest, we have to hurry.” He tugged gently, “Lolth’s not here right now, this is our only chance and we’re running out of time.”

The elf felt his jaw shake and started grinding his teeth to stop them from clacking together.

This was a trick. This had to be a trick. Of course Lolth would use his friends against him to try and lure him in to tortures. That sounded like something she’d do. He tried to pull away, but the strength in his arms was horribly limited and Regis, or the illusion of Regis, managed to hold on.

But why an illusion of Regis and not Catti-brie? Why not hit him where it hurts early?

“Drizzt, please.”

“I can’t.”

A sadness and sympathy flashed across the halfling’s round face. “Drizzt, my friend, you have to trust me.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small white something and pressed it into Drizzt’s hand.

The delicate carving and the small letter R that would have been concealed had the piece been attached to an actual arrow betrayed Regis’s work. It was a piece of ivory in the shape of an arrowhead with and intricate design of a unicorn in a full charge, head down, horn pointed toward the sharpened tip carved into it. The ranger found himself reminded of his holy symbol, and a wave of calm swallowed up his anxiety like wave washing away sand on the beach.

Regis tugged his wrist again, and Drizzt followed him into the temple.


	20. Escapes

He stumbled in, a hand pressed to stem the flow of blood that trickled down his armor, thigh, and across his knuckles to drip upon the floor. A bright red line shone angry across his face, a spot of the same color stood stark at his shoulder like some hero’s medal awarded for failure.

“What-“ Quenthel rose from her chair. Her face read more expectant than worried, ready for an admission of hard-won success.

What she received was much more disappointing.

Andrzel leaned against the table, bracing himself with his free hand and his hip. “The Chosen’s been taken, Matron. A human subdued him and stole him from his room.” He continued, wincing from pain and avoiding Quenthel’s angry stare. “I tried to take down the human before he got away, but Jarlaxle was with him, hidden from me.”

The matron’s angry mask diminished to a flat, neutral expression as she sank back into her chair. “Jarlaxle” she said slowly to herself, as if she didn’t understand them “helped kidnap the Chosen from my home with a human ally.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, “Describe this human to me.”

The weapons’ master arched an eyebrow, “Short, for a human. Light grey skin, dark hair, dark leather armor. He carried a sword and a dagger. It felt as though the dagger tried to suck the life out of me when he stabbed me with it.” He held out his bloodied hand as proof of the injury.

Andrzel retracted his hand, eyes wide when he saw the Matron drag her nails along the arms of her chair with such intensity several cracked. Her lip curled in an enraged snarl, eyes bright and wild. “Andrzel, listen to me.” She said with a forced calm.

“Yes, Matron Mother Quenthel.” The male said without hesitation.

“You, as soon as I dismiss you, will go to the infirmary, heal your injuries, and gather a force to track down the Chosen and his kidnappers. They can’t have gone far. And if they have, I would not want to be you, understood?” When Andrzel nodded, she continued, “You will also send a messenger to the Bregan D’aerthe hideout with the following message:

“Kimmuriel Oblodra is to report to me by the time Narbondel is relit. If he does not,” the matron gained ferocity as she spoke, shouting the last few words, “I will have that smart little head of his brought to me on a platter!” She took several hissing breaths through her teeth, “Now get out!”

The weapons’ master dashed away, as quickly as he could with the limp and Quenthel sank back in her chair.

Jarlaxle and Artemis Entreri were working together again. She ground her teeth, wondering how much the human knew about her involvement in his betrayal and if he’d sworn vengeance. The thought worried her for a moment.

He’d already broken into her home unnoticed once, what was to say he couldn’t do so a second time? Without her Chosen, and therefore her magic, the thought filled Quenthel with an unfamiliar dread.

She needed the Chosen back.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“No more damn portals,” Kimmuriel huffed in time with the pounding in his skull. He could feel his eyes crossing even as he squeezed them shut. He groaned loudly and Valas patted his shoulder. They were in Kimmuriel’s old bedroom; a place the psionicist hadn’t seen in decades since he’d begun his travels and works both with and against Jarlaxle. He wasn’t surprised to see the place had been cleared out of all but the heaviest of his nonessential belongings, but that didn’t stop him from huffing out an annoyed, “Really?”

Valas shook him gently, “This is what happens when you betray your guildmaster.”

“He auctions off my stuff, but keeps me on the payroll?”

The scout laughed, “Who says you’re still on the payroll?”

Kimmuriel made a face and quickly changed the subject, “Let’s just go find Jarlaxle. Hopefully he’s in the complex.”

They wandered about the sprawling tunnels for what felt like hours, first checking all of Jarlaxle’s usual haunts and then asking after him when their search came up empty. Most didn’t know what to tell them, or shrugged their shoulders at first. Eventually, after questioning nearly everyone in the place, Kimmuriel and Valas finally stumbled upon someone with an idea.

“I was told to give you this,” the mercenary said, shifting from foot to foot.

With a skeptical glare, Kimmuriel took the small sealed envelope the young male held out to him. His face was familiar but the psionicist couldn’t place his name, only that he’d been picked up off the street in the market for interrogation and then folded once he was promised membership and freedom from his house. Shooing the man off, Kimmuriel shot a quick look to Valas before breaking the seal, careful to point the letter away from his face until it was completely unfolded.

“What does it say?” Hune tried to peer over his shoulder but Kimmuriel shifted away.

The Oblodra sighed, crumpling the parchment in his hand, “That Jarlaxle’s gone and pissed somebody off enough to warrant bribery money and a dead drop of all of his gear.” He groaned again, rubbing his temple with the knuckles of his empty hand, “I think I’m going to start bleeding from the ears.”

An awkward silence passed between them as Kimmuriel regained his ever fraying composure in the face of Jarlaxle’s antics. “Where’s the dead drop?” Valas asked once the psionicist looked at him.

“Letter says it’s in the ‘second place’ and that you’d know what that meant.” He replied tearing at the letter and tossing the pieces into the fire of a nearby torch, watching the blue flames turned green and orange at the contact. “It also says we may need to consult Gromph on whom to bribe.”

“Oh dear.”

Reluctant and more than a little wary, the two left the Clawrift on foot, Valas leading the way to the drop point to collect Jarlaxle’s gear and figure out how they were going to fix whatever mess the mercenary leader had decided to make in their absence.

“And he wonders why I tried to take over the guild.”

“He doesn’t wonder,” Valas chuckled, “he knows. He just doesn’t want you to do it.”

“He’ll run the place into the ground! He’ll get us all killed,” Kimmuriel all but screamed at him, spawning a new round of throbbing behind his eyes. He groaned again.

Another awkward silence as the scout led them toward Menzoberranzan’s older houses through backstreets and alleys. On the main thoroughfares the two mercenaries could see the beginnings of a panic cracking through the cobblestones like weeds under the spring sunshine. Priestesses attempted to cast spells at slaves, only to have nothing happen and the slaves were beginning to notice. Male soldiers skirted away from their female counterparts, looking to either desert or contain should a riot break out in the streets. Most looked ready to join in the uprising as the women turned on them, screaming for them to do something and attempting to crack snake-headed whips at the insubordinate fools, only to have the whips behave reluctantly in the face of their orders.

“Oh this can’t be good,” Valas breathed as they waited for a group of women bogged down by a throng of rowdy bugbears now free of their magical binds to cross in front of them. Kimmuriel responded but was drowned out immediately by shrieks of agony, the clanging of metal, and curses echoing off the walls around them.

“I really don’t want to know what Jarlaxle did this time,” Kimmuriel shouted over the noise. “I _really_ don’t want to know.”

They had just crossed onto the mantle when a voice rose up above the din behind them, “Kimmuriel Oblodra?”

The psionicist began cursing under his breath as the young messenger approached. When the young male was close enough to be addressed, Kimmuriel refused to turn around, forcing Valas to speak for him, “Is there something you need?”

This boy wasn’t one of theirs.

“I’ve been ordered to tell Kimmuriel that his presence his requested immediately on threat of decapitation,” the messenger replied making a face at the Oblodra’s back. “He should come with me.”

“Where?” Kimmuriel tried not to make the question sound like a wail.

“House Baenre’s chapel.”

The sudden and intense volume of Kimmuriel’s voice caused both Valas and the boy to jump and take a step back, “ _Vith!”_

-0-0-0-0-0-

Artemis woke to the groggy sluggish feeling one has when the world is too warm and humid to effectively function in. He could feel a vein in his neck throbbing all the way up past his ears and into his skull, threatening to pop out his eyes with the pressure. A rock was pressing the air out of his chest, he was certain, held in place by the rope against his cheek and the weight on his side. At some point it had popped his hip out of socket too, jolts of pain shot up from just above his knee, into his stomach and ribcage.

He groaned, longing for a cool breeze in the too humid world. Some struggle, and he managed to force his eyes open, only to be greeted with more blackness. Fear hit him before his brain could catch up with events and the idea of blindness could be overridden by memories of the Underdark.

“Good,” he heard a voice say at his side. Jarlaxle’s voice, “you’re alive. Can you still use your darkvision?”

Artemis tried to concentrate on shifting his vision, but only got a wave of pressure in response. He started to groan loudly, only to have his mouth immediately covered by a hand that smelled of iron in nauseating amount.

“What?” the assassin murmured when Jarlaxle pulled his hand away, “What happened? Where are we?”

“Outside of Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle kept his voice at a low whisper as to not cause the human any more unnecessary pain. “You completed your mission successfully. Drizzt is here with us.”

The assassin began to replay through the events in his mind, the roof with Jarlaxle, the comment about falling, the window, Drizzt and the priestess. He sighed, “Is-“

“He’s alive and okay,” Jarlaxle said before Artemis could finish his question, “but he hasn’t awoken since we brought him here, hasn’t even stirred.”

Nodding the human settled a bit. The weight against his side and the ropes on his cheek were Drizzt’s body and braided hair. That answered one question.

“Try your darkvision again,” Jarlaxle prompted.

“Why?”

Artemis heard Jarlaxle sigh, “Andrzel, the dark elf you fought after Drizzt, saw me, remember? I didn’t kill him, and I have no doubt he’s reported seeing us and our crime to his Matron. This needs to be dealt with, but I want you to be able to see before I leave you.”

“What? No.” Artemis’s throat tightened. “No, no, you can’t leave me alone out here. I don’t even know where I am or what’s out there or-“

Jarlaxle shushed him gently, placing a hand at the bend connecting Artemis’s neck and shoulder and offering a squeeze to the tense muscle, “Calm down, just breathe,” he whispered, and when the human’s breathing evened he continued, “The area you’re in is pretty safe. No wildlife for some distance and if I act quickly enough the Baenre army will be less likely to pass through here. It isn’t ideal, I know, but it’s the best you can get right now.”

“Why not take me back to the ruins?” Artemis asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, “to a place with some light and a bed to rest in?”

“Quenthel and the other priestesses would know he was still in the city. You would have never been able to escape afterward.” He heard Jarlaxle shift a bit and felt a jolt in his hip for the motion, “I wish I could have gotten you farther, but you’re still the better part of a day’s march from Menzo. You’ve got time.”

“For now,” Artemis grumbled. He could feel a tremor settle in his hands at the idea of being left alone and injured in the wilds of Northdark, territory he’d never travelled, with an unconscious and probably insane ranger for company. He tried to swallow it down, to hide his response, but his body refused to listen to him.

Jarlaxle, surprisingly, said nothing allowing Artemis some time to rein himself in and regain some control. He squeezed the human’s shoulder again a few times, half-heartedly working out some of the tension there. “Try your darkvision again,” he prompted when the dark elf felt enough time had passed.

It was surprising how gentle Jarlaxle was being. In the past, Artemis had seen so little sympathy from him, as he was dragged along to do some crazy thing in a faraway place. All the while Jarlaxle had claimed friendship but only offered manipulation and grief not-

Not this.

This felt like friendship. Or, at least, what Artemis had come to understand friendship to be from his extended time in Do’Urden’s company and that of his new group of companions. A heavy ball dropped into the pit of his stomach, and burn settled behind his eyes.

Something was very, very wrong here. And if Artemis had been inclined to gamble, he would have placed his full weight in coin on that wrong thing being the source of his physical pain.

“How bad is it?” he asked. When Jarlaxle just urged him to try being able to see Artemis ground his teeth, “How bad is my injury, Jarlaxle?”

Silence. A long and draining silence that turned Artemis Entreri’s fear into anger. It took a great deal of energy, but the assassin managed to pull his hand from the floor and rest it on his leg. Sparks shot up his hip and he winced. Then, cloth torn and wrapped tightly about his thigh right above his knee; the edges were dry but the bulk of it was soaked through already. “No…” his voice broke a little but he didn’t really care at that point. Fear, unlike any he’d felt in a great, long while, plowed through him like a stampede of rabid animals.

It ebbed a bit when he managed to lean forward and feel that the other half of his leg was still attached to the rest of him.

He collapsed back against the wall and took several shaky breaths.

“It’s bad,” Jarlaxle said softly, “you won’t be able to walk on it, but your dagger saved it from amputation. Although not by as much as I or would like.”

“No…” if he lost his leg, Artemis almost didn’t want to think about it, but the thoughts came anyway, forcing their way to the forefront. He’d never be able to fight the same way again, if he could ever pick up and fight at all. This wasn’t an arm he was losing, it was part of his stance, his agility, his grace on the battlefield, the thing that came second only to his resourcefulness in skills that won battles and saved his skin.

If he lost that now and potentially forever depending on if he could get to someone with the right magic to bring it back…

“You should be able to keep it,” Jarlaxle attempted to comfort him, “There are enough small creatures in the Underdark you can sap with your dagger without incident. Perhaps even a larger one if you can get the jump on it. I…” he trailed off, “I’m sorry. I did what I could, but I had to heal Drizzt first. I couldn’t leave both of you hindered in this place. And his wounds were simpler.”

The assassin squeezed his eyes shut. He could see Jarlaxle’s point, but it didn’t fix his injury or the risk it posed.

A long time passed and they sat in silence.

“Artemis,” Jarlaxle tried to be gentle and urgent at the same time, “please. I know this isn’t easy, but I need to know you can see here. I need to take care of this or the Baenre army is going to be on top of you two.”

The human opened his eyes, and the world around him appeared as if bathed in starlight that pooled in sources of heat. He nodded to Jarlaxle, who was sitting surprisingly close, propping Artemis’s injured leg on his lap. Drizzt was nestled at Artemis’s side, all the human needed to do was shift a little and the elf would be in the crook of his arm. “So you can check on him without having to move too much,” Jarlaxle explained.

The mercenary shifted, his movements careful as he slid out from under the man’s injured limb and rested it on a stone.

Jarlaxle was about to pull away fully when Artemis took him by the arm. “Don’t-“

“Artemis I-“

“Please don’t leave me alone down here,” the human tried to hide his desperation, “I don’t know if Drizzt is even going to be himself when he wakes, if he isn’t…I’ll be a dead man. I can’t move, I can barely defend myself and you’re going to leave me in the wilds to die?”

“No,” Jarlaxle shook his head, “That isn’t.” He paused searching for words, “I’ll come back, when the Baenre’s are on another trail. I’ll come back to help you.”

Artemis sneered at him, “Because that worked out so well the last time you made that plan.”

The elf didn’t have a response.

“You call yourself my friend and you abandon me here,” Artemis accused, “I can’t really say I’m surprised.”

“Artemis-“

“I don’t want to die in the dark.” Artemis said sharply. “Not down here, not because of you.”

Jarlaxle sank, putting his hands on the assassin’s shoulders and forcing the man to look at him, “In our past you have offered me more forgiveness than I deserved. You stayed with me, you even aided me at times despite all I had inflicted upon you. I don’t expect that of you now.” He sighed, “I can’t. I cannot even expect you to trust me, but I can make you a promise you can choose whether or not you want to believe it, but I say it in earnest:

“I am _not_ going to fail you again. I have done enough wrong to you and now I need to break even. I’m not going to leave you here forever, I will return for you. Even if Drizzt wakes up and he’s still off his rocker and he kills you, I will make sure that whatever is left makes it back to Calimport where it belongs even if I have to carry it there _myself_. I have too much red on the books when it comes to you, my friend, I don’t need any more.”

Jarlaxle pulled himself closer to the human, wrapping him in a loose hug. After a moment Artemis hesitantly returned it.

“If you screw up again, Jarlaxle,” Artemis whispered, “My spirit will come back to this plane and forcefully drag you to Hell with me.”

They pulled apart, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” They shared a mutual smile, Artemis’s a bit more half-hearted, and the space between them widened. “If you and Drizzt see an opportunity to escape before I get back,” Jarlaxle added, “take it. Do not wait for me. If you’re gone when I get back I’ll try to catch up with you or find you if you make it to the surface.” He held out his hand to the seated man, “Farewell, my friend, stay safe.”

Artemis took his hand, “Run far and hide in deep holes.”

Jarlaxle made is way toward the cavern entrance before turning about quickly, “Wait. Are you quoting something?”

The human gave a curt nod, “An old friend once said something similar to me when I boarded a boat to Baldur’s Gate, I have lived long enough and come far enough to return to your company,” he replied, “Perhaps it will do the same for you now.”

Jarlaxle smiled, “Halfling superstition is powerful sometimes.”

“So is that of the poor.”

With that, Jarlaxle tipped his hat forward before throwing it back over his head so it rested against his back, feather trailing out behind him. He gave Artemis one last look before ducking out of the tunnel.

When he was sure he was alone, Artemis sighed heavily. “He isn’t coming back,” he grumbled, trying to spin anger from fear and failing.

He pressed a hand to Drizzt’s cheek. Still warm, and he could feel the ranger’s even breathing against his wrist. That was a good sign at least, even if it wasn’t a comforting as Artemis would have wanted it to be. He wrapped his arm around the elf and held him in place, pressing his cheek against the top of his head.

Moments later, Entreri pulled away with a frustrated noise and set to work undoing the braids in the elf’s hair with one hand a little less than gently. Once they were freed, the human unabashedly buried his face in the silken, wavy strands and stayed like that for some time. It calmed him somewhat, a familiar feeling in an unknown place.

He could have slept that way, and nearly did, until he heard the beat of wings not far from him, kicking up a throat-clogging, musty, acrid odor, and dust all through the small chamber.

Oh no.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Draygo gasped, clutching the edge of the door for dear life, lightheaded and dizzy. He worried that if he fell, he would not be able to rise a second time, but he made it. On the other side of the door locked in his white-knuckle grip stood his laboratory; the wide space was eerily still and empty without apprentices and staff wandering around shelving books and cleaning or repairing equipment.

It was beginning to dawn on him that his entire castle was empty. That he had been deserted left behind by his men to die and rot in his own failure.

A surge of unbridled rage and humiliation spurred him forward on shaky legs across the wide expanse of the room only to collapse against a large box of polished ebony. It had aged somewhat since Draygo had brought it in, but it was still a thing of beauty, delicate runes intricately swirled around about the surface catching light and casting shadows giving the wood the appearance of texture. Silver fasteners glittered in the dim illumination the room offered.

“I blame you for this,” Draygo growled at the box resisting the urge to punch the thing. “I will always blame you for this. You and your lack of tact and control.” He sighed, unable to maintain the anger for long, and forced himself to move on. “I’ll deal with you later,” he grumbled as he pushed off from the case and continued deeper into the laboratory.

The warlock pitched a bit too far to one side and slammed into a large shelf, nearly sending its contents to the floor and probably leaving a nasty bruise on his shoulder and arm. Luckily for Draygo, the shelf’s contents had almost everything he needed so he wouldn’t have to wander about the huge space as his life slowly slipped away from him.

He gathered what he could hold: a pair of working gloves that allowed him to tamper with ethereal energy without spellcasting, a large saw, and a few smaller implements of torture. He tossed them haphazardly on a work table inlaid with a complicated summoning circle. He pushed off from the table to another shelf and collected three jars of varying fluids and was a bit more gentle with their placement.

The final item he brought to his workbench was a small black box, similar to the huge case at the front of the room, but much smaller; only amounting to about three times the size of Draygo’s fist. He set the black and silver vessel on a bench beside the work table and organized his supplies around it. He left the box closed.

The implements and gloves went beside the box along with one of the smaller jars of liquid, which really was not much more than a vial. The largest jar, containing a crystal clear, amber colored fluid that swirled with something like black smoke that never actually mixed in and muddled the color, Draygo emptied hastily into a relatively new piece of machinery stored under the table.

The third jar, a clear, viscous fluid with a similar smoke, but in purple, Draygo drank deeply from. It stuck to his mouth like a sludge, astringent and sour, smelling of mold and decay. He retched, feeling his entire body rebel and attempt to reject it at first. His vision darkened again and his head swam, but he stabilized.

Draygo pushed himself up onto the worktable, lying back on the circle and feeling its magic seep up into his skin like a chill wind. His heart fluttered dangerously. He prayed he wouldn’t die before he could start fixing the damage Drizzt Do’Urden had inflicted upon him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The soothing comfort Regis’s tiny gift of ivory had given him dissolved once Drizzt found himself staring and an ornately carved, blood stained altar to Lolth dominating the far wall of the very first room the temple offered them. Panic and another, heavy, cold-feeling emotion came at him in alternating waves with such intense fury that it knocked the ranger down to his hands and knees. He forced his eyes down to the marble tiles that alternated bright red and black across the chapel. He had to remind himself to breathe.

“I can’t-“

Drizzt Do’Urden had seen many things, both awe-inspiring and terrible; he had been to many horrific places, but none of them held a candle to this. A trembling sickness wracked him, but he was too exhausted to retch or cough or do anything except for shake and not try to fall face-first on the floor. He was kneeling in Lolth’s seat of power, where she tortured her favored victims and presided over her plane. She’d dragged him there and he was powerless to stop her from doing so.

What was to say she wouldn’t drag him back once he’d escaped? Her city had managed to.

He whimpered.

Drizzt wasn’t sure how long he’d been on the floor, but when he felt Regis’s hand fall on his shoulder and saw the halfling bend down in the edge of his vision he felt a little more anchored in time. Regis was whispering something to him, trying to urge him to stand, even going so far as to tug on Drizzt’s arm in an attempt to get him back on his feet.

“I can’t- I can’t do this,” Drizzt nearly sobbed.

Regis squeezed his arm gently, “ _Drizzt._ Drizzt, listen to me, Catti-Brie is waiting for us, and we don’t have much time.” The sound of his wife’s name pulled the ranger’s attention from the floor. He looked more rattled than Regis had ever seen him, so vulnerable, so far from the indestructible whirlwind of steel he’d known. “We need to hurry. Come on.” Drizzt started to shake his head, and Regis pulled hard on his arm, nearly sweeping it out from under the elf, “Please, Drizzt. I don’t want to be here any more than you do. If we want to get out we need to move. _Now_.”

The ranger didn’t respond he just looked back down to the floor.

The halfling was begging him now, “Drizzt, I know it’s a lot to take in but if you don’t get on your feet now we’ll both be stuck here for who knows how long. “ Silently Regis wished he’d had the time to wait for Bruenor to return to Iruladoon so he could have dragged the dwarf with him. Drizzt might have actually listened the first time then. “ _You_ might end up stuck here forever.”

Regis pulled again and this time Drizzt came up off the floor. The ranger allowed himself be led across the room, his eyes constantly on the altar.

What plans did she have for him on that altar?

Where was she?

Once they were on their way up the stairs Drizzt came back into himself a bit, “Where is everything? This place seems so empty.”

Regis nodded, “I noticed that too. It makes me uneasy. We know the Spider Queen’s planning something, but we aren’t sure what.”

“Where,” Drizzt trailed off, his voice small, “Where is She?”

Regis turned; he was a few steps up from Drizzt and only had to look up slightly to make eye-contact with the ranger, “She isn’t here, Drizzt.” He tried to sound authoritative, but really only succeeded in sounding angry, “Ao has called a meeting of all the gods. She’s on His plane now.” He turned and started back up the stairs, “But, we have no idea when this is meeting is going to end and Lolth will return, so it’ll be better if we get out of here sooner than later.”

Drizzt looked over his shoulder; he could just see the edge of red and black tiling at the bottom of the staircase. He shuddered, but squared his shoulders and plowed on behind Regis.

How would they know when she came back? Or, better:

What had she left in charge in her absence and where was _it_?

-0-0-0-0-0-

It did not take them long to rise or set off down the winding and crossing bridges that allowed the Acid Aerie to be traversable. Both were eager to just get this whole thing over with, and the sooner it started, the sooner it could end.

Dahlia hadn’t bothered to ask Tiago any more questions, instead she chose to make herself appear enthralled with the landscape to allow herself time to think as she trailed behind him. She knew Tiago was going to betray her, give her up as prisoner, the drow had said as much to her face. What she needed was an opportunity to get out of that before it even became an option. Sometime between meeting his contacts and actually getting in to House Baenre, she figured.

But, what? What could she possibly do this deep in unknown territory? She’d known a problem like this would arise as soon as Arunika informed them about Drizzt, but despite all the time she had a plan was difficult in coming.

She needed to get to Artemis, Drizzt could wait, or better yet just be tortured and destroyed by the drow and save Dahlia the trouble. Artemis, and the rest of the group no doubt, would have either figured out a way into the city by now and be on their way out, or would have already set up a base camp to formulate a plan just outside of Menzoberranzan.

And the Aerie seemed like a pretty good place for a camp. But where? Not that she’d be able to notice, surely Artemis would know enough about the Underdark to advise against a full on fire, they may have even seen her and Tiago and hidden deeper in whatever cubby they were stuffed into.

“Watch your step,” Tiago hissed at her when she got a bit too close to both him and a ledge and nearly sent both of them tumbling over the side and into whatever foul thing rested at the bottom, “if you’re going to jump, don’t take me with you.”

She shoved him forward and he tried to snap his elbow back to counter, but she just slipped out of range at his back, linked their arms and pulled him in a circle, letting him go once they’d gained enough momentum to cause him to quickstep forward in order to regain his balance. He whirled around at her, and Dahlia just smirked at him.

He arched an eyebrow at her, took a swift side step and shoved her shoulder, pulling her into a grapple when she tried to counter, holding her head and upper torso over the ledge, just enough that if he let go she’d struggle to catch herself before falling. “You really want to pull that with me, little girl?” he taunted.

Dahlia huffed at him, “You’re going to have me killed anyway, why not cut out the middle man?”

“You still have some value to me,” Tiago countered.

“Aww, I didn’t know you felt that way,” the surface elf put on her best swooning maiden expression. She hooked her leg behind Tiago’s and broke out of his hold, using her captor’s stance for balance, but nearly sending them both over the edge. She danced away before he could grab her again, “I don’t think you’re my type though.”

Tiago rotated his shoulder a bit, Dahlia had almost pulled it out of socket when she broke out of his grip. “Oh? Sworn off men have you?” he laughed, “I don’t blame you.”

“No,” Dahlia replied flippantly, “I just want a man whose testicles don’t belong to his mother.”

The drow scowled at her, “She isn’t my mother.”

“That doesn’t help your case,” he just rolled his eyes at her and brushed her off after that. Dahlia snickered after him, just loud enough so he could hear. He turned around, shot her and insulting gesture, and continued across the last bridge and back into the tunnel system. A straight shot to Menzoberranzan.

Dahlia lingered a bit behind him, pretending to be taken in by the intricate web pattern of wires that held up the drow-made bridge. She wasn’t even in Menzoberranzan yet and the spider motif was already starting to get a little old for her tastes.

With a quiet sigh, Dahlia lingered in the entranceway. She looked back on the Aerie, the last stop before what Drizzt had described as circle of Hell come to Toril. She was about to turn back when something caught her attention. Ducking back into the entrance of the tunnel, she watched it closely, the gemstone behind her eyepatch allowing her to see the figure clearly, even from such a great distance.

It was humanoid, a bit fuller framed than the creatures they’d encountered before. It came out from one of the side passages in the middle of the Aerie, and far from the trail she and her companion had taken. It lined up however, with their path after a few quick drops across the bridges and some strides, only it was heading away from the dark elf city. “Tiago,” Dahlia whispered, “look.”

The dark elf appeared at her side in short order, just enough time to catch sight of the figure disappearing into the exit tunnel.

“Which way did it come from?” he asked, starting after it.

“I’m not sure,” Dahlia lied, “when I looked up he was on his way out.”

Tiago turned around to face her, “’he?’”

Dahlia nodded, “You probably missed it, but he had a hat slung on his back. It’s pretty hard to mistake.”

The Baenre was silent for several long seconds, “Jarlaxle,” he said, more to himself.

The surface elf nodded, though Tiago wasn’t looking at her, “Out of the city and going farther. You don’t think it could mean,” she paused for a bit, waiting for her companion’s attention, “Drizzt and Artemis are already out.”

“And he’s hidden them somewhere,” Tiago started off after the mercenary, glancing back at Dahlia as a signal for her to follow, “Let’s see what information we might be able to get from him.”

They set off at a run together after the mercenary, but after a few strides Dahlia slowed up. She continued to slow until she stopped entirely and Tiago was out of her sight. Calling on the magic in her cloak, she lit off the ledge and hunted down the side tunnel she’d seen Jarlaxle come out of.


	21. Do You Love Him?

It was more a maze than a temple. Narrow winding halls lined with heavy doors, the occasional piece of furniture making the tight spaces even tighter, the ceilings weren’t vaulted, the walls were not ornately decorated like the temples Drizzt had become accustomed to in his life, even the ones to Lolth. The floors were covered in tiles of dark stone swirled with a shimmering metallic red that made the ranger’s head pound if he stared at the patterns for too long. The ceiling wasn’t much better, the low plane decorated with a simple spider-and-web pattern that, he noticed, repeated every twenty steps. Not that he was counting.

They passed several side passages as they progressed. Drizzt didn’t have to strain to hear tortured screams echoing through doors and against walls, the sound of a lash against skin. The smell of brimstone and a sickly sweetness nearly choked him as they passed certain doors. All of which were locked, he noticed out of the corner of his eye.

Every once in a while they passed a window, heavily curtained with cobweb laden fabric that reminded the ranger of the sails on the _Sea Sprite_. If they’d been dyed with the blood of captured and wounded pirates.

He decided to stop looking at things after that, focusing all of his attention to the halfling in front of him.

Regis looked almost exactly how Drizzt remembered him; a little heavier around the middle from years of retirement, but a practiced glide and steadiness in his step, his curly brown hair speckled with a few rogue greys and brushed away from his round face, his clothing simple, but comfortable. He seemed to know his way around the place pretty well. The ranger tried to convince himself it was because the halfling had to trek through the temple to get to him, but he couldn’t shake the spark of suspicion in the back of his mind.

Why would Regis, of all his companions, come to save him? Why not Catti-Brie or Bruenor or even Wulfgar to help him fight his way through the halls instead of slinking through them like a thief?

Drizzt felt a flutter in his chest. Perhaps this was trap. Lolth could be leading him into a trap, into some sort of horrific torture. The urge to run shot through him, but he didn’t know the way. He’d just get lost in the flight and wind up running in to something even more terrible. Or maybe none of this was real.

Maybe he just thought he saw someone that looked like his long-dead friend leading him down the hall, unarmed and unarmored, to his doom.

He felt sick, cold, and dizzy. He missed being asleep.

A hand roughly grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him to the side. Pain shot up his arm as it was twisted slightly backward and it felt as if his shoulder was being dislocated. When he shook the spots from his vision, Drizzt saw Regis, or what he was going to assume was Regis for now if only for his own sanity, scowling at him and bringing a single finger to his own lips before pointing out into the hallway.

Lumbering and taller than the two of them combined, a pit fiend wandered about. It didn’t seem particularly alert or angered, as though it were simply on patrol and not looking for an escapee.

“They haven’t noticed you’re gone yet,” Regis whispered when the fiend disappeared down a side passage, “it won’t be long before they do, though. We should hurry.” Without waiting for Drizzt’s response he took hold of the ranger’s shirtfront and dragged him along to the intersection of the two hallways. The halfling stopped then, motioning for Drizzt to stay flat against the wall, peaked around the corner and darted across. A few seconds and Regis looked again, waving the dark elf over.

Drizzt darted across the hall, chancing a look at the fiend’s back. It was scarred and bloody; the mark of slave-creature. In those seconds the ranger wondered what lengths the creature would go to, to maintain the Spider Queen’s favor. He was suddenly made very aware of how vulnerable he was.

He needed a weapon.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The initial gust of wind was quickly followed by a blinding burst of bluish light that left the assassin’s head spinning for several seconds. Instinctively, he raised his dagger and listened; heard a soft _whump_ of something being dropped roughly on the stone and footsteps, just one set, cautious in their approach. When he finally managed to blink most of the spots from his vision, he saw her.

Dahlia had changed a great deal since their last encounter in Ashenglade all those months ago; her dark hair grown out and softened the features uncovered by the patch over her left eye, her clothing simpler and more practical for travel. She looked the part of a real adventurer now, not just some girl pretending. Artemis would have been impressed at the transformation had she not been pointing her weapon at him.

A smirk pulled at the corners of her mouth, “You’ll only get one shot with that thing.”

Artemis tried to return the smirk, but the tingling weakness in his throwing arm kept his expression dour, “You think I’ll need more than one? Oh, that’s cute.”

Dahlia held his gaze, calling his bluff, but not acting. The silence that tugged at the air between them carried for several heartbeats before the assassin finally lowered his arm, shifting his weight a bit as he did so, and biting back a wince as a jolt shot up his side. He heaved a deep breath “What do you want, Dahlia?”

The elf sauntered in a little closer, listing to one side both to put a gap between herself and the assassin, and to get a better look at Drizzt, “I came to kill you,” she said absently.

Unable to contain the urge, Entreri scoffed at her, “With what? Idle chatter?”

Dahlia made a face but didn’t turn to him when she shot back, “Big talk from a guy who can’t stand.”

He scowled at her.

As if something snapped in her at that look, Dahlia broke her folded staff in two and crossed the small cavern to him; just out of arms’ reach. She poked him in the chest with the weapon, taunting him. He lifted his dagger again. She only smiled at him, eyes drifting briefly to the obvious wound on his leg before saying, “Ready to defend him to the death are you?”

Entreri arched a dark eyebrow, “What are you talking about?”

“Do’Urden,” she answered flippantly, gesturing to the ranger with her second staff and scoffing when the assassin shifted, ready to strike, “He got you into this mess, didn’t he? And yet, you are still ready to _die_ _first_. It almost looks like you’re defending him. Must be love.”

Artemis leaned back, he knew that tone. That high-edged lilt just on the edges of madness. She was open, vulnerable, and if he could just get her a little closer…

“You’re pathetic.”

Dahlia’s attention snapped to him, single eye wide and wild, “Excuse me?”

The assassin lowered his dagger with a single, mocking laugh, lowering his gaze as well but never letting his fullest attention leave her. “You’ve had all this time,” he lulled his head around his shoulders “all of these moments to just end me and be done with all this” he spat the word at her, “ _pettiness._ But you just stand there and _talk_.” He gave another low, mocking laughed, “That’s all you do, Dahlia: talk. But when it comes time to act, you fall short or hesitate, and you consistently fail.”

Her lip curled up in a snarl, “Shut up.”

“Or?” He snorted, “Dahlia, come on. Just go.” He pressed his knuckles into the flesh of his thigh just above the wound, “I have enough to deal with without your emotional baggage stinking up the place. Take your broken ego somewh-“

Just as predicted, she rushed him. One staff pressed flat against the wall beneath her arm extended to help her maintain her balance, the other resting across Artemis’s neck, pressing just enough to make breathing a challenge, but not impossible, “You think you can intimidate me with all this banter, assassin?” she spat in his face, “You didn’t scare me when I fought you in the woods and you don’t scare me now, you petulant little man.”

“Such anger, so little action.”

She pressed in harder, effectively choking him and leaning in closer. He coughed and sputtered a little, but finally managed to laugh in her face. She saw red and leaned in closer, just enough-

He only managed to nick her before she caught on to his plan. His dagger sliced open her shirt and left a bright red line across her side, just below her ribs. But she pushed off from the wall, and danced away before he could call on the dagger’s magic to feed. The elf laughed checking the tear in her shirt and the cut in her skin. “I see,” there was still a warble of hysteria in her voice, “You almost had me.”

The assassin said nothing, his face neutral.

“Oh what? No more talk now that I’ve seen through you, tough guy?”

Artemis only stared at her, no anger or fear in that look. He waited until he saw her shift uncomfortably, ready to taunt him again, before asking, quiet and solemn, “Is this what you want, Dahlia?”

“Yes.”

He heard less conviction in her voice this time, and he focused in on it. He watched her closely, saw her cracking around the edges. Artemis took a deep breath as inconspicuously as he could, he had to maintain control of the situation, and he couldn’t hold her down when she snapped this time. When he didn’t answer, Dahlia continued:

“Of course this is what I want,” she tried hide the nervous tremble in her hands, “You deserve to get your comeuppance for what you did.”

“For what, exactly?” he asked “What crime have I committed?”

Her nostrils flared and her jaw clenched. After a huff she growled at him, “You betrayed me. For _him_ of all people-“ She pointed to Drizzt and hesitated a moment as she stared at the ranger. She lost her momentum then, “Why? After…” Dahlia turned back to Artemis, “After everything. Those things you said in Gauntlgrym, in Baldur’s Gate, why? Why did you leave me for him?”

Somewhere in the back of his mind he could hear Dondon Tiggerwillies drunkenly laughing at him and saying ‘I warned you about those womenfolk, Arty.’ And he wanted to beat his head against the wall. “’Leave you’?” He struggled not to sound condescending “I didn’t leave you. You left us in Icewind Dale and betrayed us to Tiago of your own volition. You made that choice, not me.”

Dahlia banged her staff loudly against the stone wall, but Artemis didn’t even blink at the sound. “You went back for him!” She growled, volume of her voice rising, “You all punished me for letting him die and be with his precious little ghost like he wanted. How is that not leaving me? You all wanted me gone, ad-“

“I wanted you to stop being stupid.” Artemis cut her off before her voice could rise anymore. She stumbled over the rest of her words and when she was silent, he continued, “I cannot speak for the others or whatever they did in my absence. But _I_ wanted you to smarten up. You can’t just go around killing your allies in a group of mostly good people and expect to get away with it. The world doesn’t work that way.”

“Allies?” the elf snapped and descended into sarcastic laughter, “Oh, that’s _funny._ This bastard,” Again she pointed one of her staves at Drizzt and Artemis longed for the ability to stand and _make_ her stop, “led me on for months. But all he wanted was someone to screw around with while he hunted his ghost and pretended to be a hero. He used me-“

“Just because you didn’t have him under your thumb doesn’t mean he wasn’t your ally or even your friend,” The assassin snapped back, reminding himself that anger would not win him the day in order to keep his voice even, “How long did it take him to draw his weapons before you nearly beat him to death? Hmm?”

Dahlia shook her head, appalled at the idea, “I don’t see what that has to do with-“

“Because I know,” he said, voice firm, “from experience, that if it had been anyone in that group other than you that drew weapons on him, he would not have let the _first blow land._ He may have wanted to die there but he is a fighter by nature. But he didn’t do that to you. Why do you think that is?”

The line of conversation promptly stopped working in Entreri’s favor the moment that question left his mouth. “Why are you defending him?” she was nearly shouting, “Look at yourself: trapped in the Underdark, nearly bleeding to death, and for what?” She stabbed her staff in the air in Drizzt’s direction and nearly smiled when she saw the assassin’s throwing arm twitch, “Him? Why is he so important to you? Do you love him? Is that why you left me for him? Is that why you saved him? Why you... put up with all this?”

“Dahlia-“ he just wanted her to stop talking so loudly.

“Answer the question,” she shouted, “Do you love him?”

Artemis didn’t respond, his mind reeling over the possible outcomes of her being heard before he came up with an answer she would believe.

“ _Answer me.”_

-0-0-0-0-0-

This had worked out much, much worse than he had initially planned. That isn’t to say Jarlaxle thought the whole thing would go off without a single hitch, but a near-amputation and a comatose Do’Urden were a bit more than a hitch. Or, even, several hitches.

This was just awful.

Jarlaxle slowed his run to a jog once he reached a fork in the tunnel, cursing under his breath. “Oh, now what?” He ran a hand over the smooth dome of his head, reaching over his shoulder and plopping his hat back in its proper place.

He would have to buy them some time. Quenthel would most definitely send as many men as she could spare out hunting for them and the Aerie wasn’t exactly the best place to hide from the Baenre army. But how?

He’d need to mislead them, he reasoned. Send them in the wrong direction; make them think the Chosen and his kidnapper were too far gone to be retaken without going to the surface and hunting for Drizzt Do’Urden on his home turf.

But Andrzel had almost certainly seen him aiding Entreri. There was no way Quenthel was just going to take his word on where they went.

Jarlaxle sneered at himself and pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe if he could make it back to Menzoberranzan and get in touch with Kimmuriel before the Baenre’s troops mobilized their search he could convince the psionicist to speak to Quenthel for him.

Or Kimmuriel would pick his brain, cough up the truth to Quenthel and just betray him again.

He growled quietly and pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes, resisting the urge to shout in frustration. None of his options were good, there was no hole in this large enough for him to weasel his way out of and still get the result he wanted.

He could just leave back to the surface, but that would mean Drizzt and Artemis would be captured. Jarlaxle toyed with the idea briefly, but rejected it when he realized he’d never get his hands on Drizzt again even if he managed to get Artemis back from the Baenres in one, mostly whole, piece.

Jarlaxle thought about intercepting the force, and allowing himself to be captured himself as a way to give misinformation. Though it seemed like the best idea, there was a lot wrong with that plan and he nearly rejected it too; what if they had orders to kill him on sight, or their resident illithid interrogate him instead of someone he could lie to, what if the force was already too spread out and his information didn’t even matter? No, he’d need to get on Quenthel’s personal interrogation list in order to give out the misinformation he’d need to.

He had so many options, but none of them worked out without either him or his friends being tortured or killed.

The mercenary growled again and wondered if Artemis had faced a similar dilemma when they were in Calimport together a lifetime ago. He was starting to develop a new appreciation for the man and all he dealt with. In a flight of whimsy, he vowed to buy the assassin a drink, or several, the next time they encountered each other. Even if he had to do so anonymously.

Jarlaxle heaved a heavy, exasperated sigh, as if the action alone would somehow clear his thoughts. When the space was silent again, that’s when he heard it: the soft ruffle of fabric at his back, the creak of grip tightening around leather.

Firmly planting his heel, Jarlaxle spun about, hurling a dagger from his bracer at the source of the noise. He saw it stick in shimmering glassteel. Another dagger went flying from his grip, aimed under the shield as the mercenary backed away, but it flew harmlessly wide of the Baenre’s leg. He tried another dagger, and heard it clang against the stone.

Something heavy and tacky to the touch struck him with enough force to knock him backward, nearly taking his feet out from under him. He tugged at the strands pinning his right arm to his torso with his free left, when a second web hit him.

Tiago was closing the gap now.

Jarlaxle watched him do so. Pieces started falling into the holes in his plan. Instead of flicking his wrist and cutting himself free of the webbing with a fresh dagger, he stood still and let the young warrior approach.

“Where are they hidden, Jarlaxle?” Tiago asked as soon as he was close enough.

He looked rougher than Jarlaxle remembered; his hair had grown out and mustache wasn’t quite as even as it could be. His clothing looked stolen and a little too large for his frame, or what the mercenary could see of it behind the distortion the shield inflicted.

“Yerv-“ Jarlaxle sputtered a bit around the strand of webbing that stuck to his face, “You’ve been busy.”

Tiago scowled at him, “I don’t have the patience for this. Tell me where they are or I will cart you off to someone that can make you talk.”

Jarlaxle flashed him a bright, toothy grin, “Cart away.”

The Baenre made a face. “You’d rather deal with Matron Mother Quenthel than take the easy way out with me? What kind of fool are you?”

“The best kind,” the mercenary quipped.

“The suicidal kind,” Tiago grumbled under his breath before hitting Jarlaxle with a third web from his shield, finally knocking the older drow from his feet.

“Is that not the best kind?” When the Baenre didn’t answer, Jarlaxle laughed openly at him.

Scowling, Tiago hauled the mercenary up and started to drag him away. Jarlaxle smiled widely all the way back to the city, silently formulating a plan.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“And if I don’t?” His voice was tenser than he’d wanted it to be, but his situation was spiraling too far out of his control for him to care.

Dahlia seemed to calm down at the question. That wasn’t a good sign and it made Artemis all the more anxious to end this line of conversation, “It’s a simple question, Artemis.” The amount of venom she used when she uttered his name could’ve set up a back-alley poison dealer for life.

“Simple to you, maybe.”

The elf didn’t seem to like that response. She pursed her lips and clicked her tongue, “Fine. If you’re going to be that way, I suppose I’ll have to give you some more incentive to answer.”

Artemis felt a chill course through his blood. “You’ll threaten to kill me some more?”

She shook her head, “No. I know you don’t value your life any more than I value mine.” Twirling a staff in one hand, Dahlia sauntered deeper into the cavern. She turned on her heel after several paces, reattached the two halves of her staff to form a single eight foot pole that nearly scraped the ceiling behind her, and pressed the tip to the center of Drizzt’s exposed chest. “I’ll kill _him._ ”

“Dahlia-“

“Enough.” She thumped the ranger hard in the chest, causing his head to lull to one side. “Answer the question.”

Entreri raised his dagger, “I only need one shot, Dahlia. It doesn’t have to end this way.”

The assassin felt a tingling weightlessness in his arm, his head felt light. He only had one throw and she was too far away to get his dagger back, even if it killed her. If he acted on his threat he’d be unarmed. And Dahlia knew it.

“Answer the question,” she said slowly. “I will not ask again.”

He stared hard at her, arm cocked, as if daring her to act.

Dahlia drew back her staff and brought it down, aiming for the ranger’s heart.

His throw was wide and low, missing her neck and, instead, cutting a deep gash in her arm causing her to miss and her staff to scrape the stone wall. He heard the clang as his most useable weapon clattered to the floor at the back of the cave.

“Well,” Dahlia huffed, checking the wound and choosing to let it bleed, “there goes your chance.”

“I still have my sword.”

“Oh, please, you can’t throw your dagger with any accuracy, how are you going to fight me with a _sword_.” She laughed, a cruel sound, “And I can see you don’t even have your belt knife anymore. When did you lose it? I can’t remember.”

Artemis clenched his jaw.

“Oh, wait, that’s right-“ She pulled a familiar dagger from a loop on the back of her belt, “in Ashenglade. You threw it at Ravel, didn’t you? Right before you went over the cliff?”

His heart sank.  “How-“

“If you want to keep your secrets, I’m going to keep mine.”

Artemis scowled at her. He had one other option; the panther. But that wasn’t the best of ideas, a large panther and a crazed elf fighting around the two immobile men wasn’t exactly a recipe for success.

He decided to try his luck, keep that ace up his sleeve until his hand was all but unplayable.

“I don’t know,” he said, banking on honesty to bring the elf down.

“That’s not an answer,” she said, angry, about to strike Drizzt a second time.

“It is the only answer I have, Dahlia. I do not know.” The sincerity of his voice knocked her back on her heels for a moment. She scoffed at him, disbelieving, “What? Were you expecting some swooning bard’s poem of an answer about how I’ve been secretly in love with the man since I met him? Or some emotional confession about an affair we had behind your back all this time? Not in this lifetime.”

“How do you not know?” She leaned back, putting Drizzt out of immediate danger.

Artemis shook his head, “I have nothing to compare it against. Every person I’ve ever thought I’ve loved has betrayed me, or tried to kill me, or left me out to dry, or simply disappeared. Do’Urden has done none of these things to me, in all the years I’ve known him. I am not sure how to feel about it and thus I cannot answer your question the way you would like.”

Dahlia looked as if he’d slapped her across the face, “Then…” she looked between them, “Then why? Why if you don’t love him, do you do all this?” She gestured to his wound and then to the dark cavern around them.

The assassin shook his head, “Just because someone doesn’t love you doesn’t mean they can’t care.” He tried to add a sharp point to the statement, hoping she’d see what he wanted her to.

It took a moment, but the point struck home, even if she didn’t want to admit to it, “That’s ridiculous.” She was losing her footing and forgetting her cause, her focus now back on Artemis and his ludicrous answers.

He ran with it, “I obviously didn’t love you, but I was still willing to give you advice and sympathy in Gauntlgrym and my time in Baldur’s Gate. Is that ridiculous too?”

“Yes!” she said quickly, “Yes it is. Why be so vulnerable for someone you don’t… for someone don’t have feelings for? Someone you don’t love?”

When he reflected on this moment in the future, Artemis Entreri would kick himself for the direction he decided to take the conversation in order to regain complete control of it. His Pashas and trainers that taught him how to better manipulate others and every person that ever gave him advice on controlling a conversation was most likely laughing at him from beyond the grave and that laughter would keep him awake at night even years down the line.

But in the moment, he didn’t see too many options ahead of him short of attempting to maul Dahlia with a magical panther and risk getting caught in the crossfire, not being able to take cover from that fray in the small space.

“Dahlia, I don’t think you know what love _is._ ”

She huffed at him as if insulted.

“I certainly don’t,” He chose to look away, almost to the point of being too much, but after seeing Jarlaxle use the look to garner feminine sympathy enough times, the assassin was sure it would help him here, “I think I used to. A lifetime ago, but that part of me has been dead for ages.” He looked up at her and added, “Maybe I do love him, but I’m blind to it and cannot claim that which I do not see.” Artemis hardened his tone, “But I do know, with utmost certainty, that _your_ definition is wrong.”

Dahlia scoffed at him, but her heart wasn’t in it.

He had her attention.

“It’s control. That’s what you want from every man you come across. You tried to control Drizzt, and when you found you couldn’t you tried to kill him. Now, you’re doing the same thing to me.” Artemis could see her winding up again, and attempted to back off in a way that didn’t seem too obvious, but couldn’t get the words out in time.

She snapped at him, leaning forward shouting at him so loudly he could hear her voice echoing through the caverns. He wanted to kick her in the shin or the stomach just to get her to shut up, but she was too far away, “How dare you! Who are you to tell me what I want?” She leveled her staff at his heart and Artemis just kept his gaze level, not letting her have an inch, “I am so sick and tired of every _goddamn man_ who thinks he’s better than me telling me what I want or what I deserve.” She started to lose steam stammering the last few words, “You want know what I want? I…I want-“

For a few seconds, as she tried to collect herself, Dahlia was an open book. Easy to read, easier to predict, just like she had been before she’d left the group. The assassin knew he had her, all he had to do was wait for a pause long enough for him to strike the killing blows.

When it came, he was ready, “You want the pain to stop.” He watched her stare at him, just as she had in Gauntlgrym when he’d told her about his mother. “And that’s not going to happen with you killing me anymore than it did when you beat Alegni’s face in,” he layered on the sympathy and softness in his voice, watching her lean into his words, “as much as he deserved it. The act of killing alone does not bring peace, does it, Dahlia?”

The elf leaned against the wall opposite the assassin and sank to the floor, shaking her head and looking defeated. “I want to be free,” she confessed.

“Then do it,” he offered her a soft smile, “No chains bind you but those you forge yourself now. Prove yourself to be better than that. To be better than whatever everyone that has wronged you has believed you to be.”

Dahlia’s face softened, and she said nothing. The tension lifted in the room slightly, the imminent danger passed.

As Artemis’s focus drifted from keeping Drizzt and himself from being killed back to his situation and surroundings he realized the dull throbbing in his leg wasn’t just residual pain, but his wound being open and actively bleeding again. He reasoned that he must have reopened it when he threw his dagger. He tried to put pressure on it, but blood loss was starting to get to him. He felt dizzy.

He noticed Dahlia rise from her spot on the floor and move toward the cavern entrance, but didn’t really pay too much attention to what she did after that. Pain shot up his leg as he leaned into the wound, trying to use his weight to add pressure, but only feeling more warm, alarmingly thick blood seep between his fingers for the effort.

A hand settled on his shoulder and pushed him back against the wall. Dahlia was at his side, her staff in the crook of her arm casting its eerie blue glow, rummaging through a large pack bearing the seal of the lord of Neverwinter on its side. She pulled out several pieces of fabric and a few skins of water. “Stop that, you’ll just bleed out.”

“Moments ago you wanted to kill me, now you’re going to help me?” Artemis almost laughed.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Entreri,” she growled at him, pulling off the haphazard bandages Jarlaxle had placed on him with more than a little prejudice. “Who wrapped this up? A monkey?”

Artemis arched an eyebrow when she looked at him, “I’m not touching that one.”

She rolled her eye at him, but set to work cleaning and bandaging the wound in silence. It was worse than Artemis had thought it was; a deep, jagged slice, about the width of his finger at its widest point, taken out of the flesh of his thigh and for a moment he couldn’t tell if he could see bone or if he was just hallucinating.

He decided to go with hallucinating.

When Dahlia finished wrapping the wound back up, she handed him one of the skins of water, “Drink. You’ll need it.”

Entreri took the skin, smelled its contents and dumped a little out on his hand to check for poison out of habit. Satisfied, he took long, deep swig, but didn’t drain it. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” he said when Dahlia gave him a look and told him to drink more. “I need to conserve resources.”

She didn’t argue with him, instead choosing to repack her things and ask about Drizzt, “What happened to him anyway? Surely our conversation would have awoken him.”

“It’s complicated,” he answered, more because he didn’t have the energy to explain it all than whether or not he wanted her to know. “All I know is that his soul’s on another plane and he’s comatose until it gets back. Or something. It’s magic, I don’t really bother trying to understand it anymore.”

Dahlia made a face Artemis couldn’t quite read, “How long as he been like that?” When Artemis shrugged and admitted to not being able to gauge time all that well in the Underdark, Dahlia reached for the ranger. The assassin caught her hand, “I’m not going to hurt him,” she said keeping her palms open and her staff in the bend of her elbow.

He released her, and she touched Drizzt’s cheek. “He’s still warm,” she said softly.

“I suppose that’s a good thing?”

“Wizards in Thay used to do this sort of thing all the time for sport; sending their consciousness to other planes.” She explained, “But sometimes they’d go too far or be gone for too long and their connections to their physical bodies would wear down. You can tell because their bodies grow cold first and then slowly die in absence of the soul. You should keep an eye on it.”

Artemis nodded, a knot of worry forming in his chest. He hadn’t thought Drizzt would just up and die on him, maybe stay comatose forever and perhaps need to be retrieved, but definitely not die. “How long does that take?”

“It varies too much to say,” she rose again, crossing to the back of the cavern and retrieving the assassin’s dagger. For a moment Artemis thought she was going to take it with her.

But, she tossed it at him when she was far enough away to not have to worry about being stabbed with it.

“You’re just going to leave me here?” Artemis laughed.

“Yep.” Dahlia adjusted her pack, “If you wind up dying down here, I get an extra win. If not, that’s not my problem.”

“Can I get my belt knife back?”

“Nope.”

The assassin rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue with it. He watched her turn to leave, but called after her once she put out her staff’s light, “Dahlia, what changed your mind?”

She looked at him over her shoulder, “The way you spoke, the way you look, how fiercely you defend him despite how little he does for you, it made me realize… no hell I could send you to would be worse than the one you’re in now at his side.”

Not the answer Artemis had expected, but he wasn’t about to spit in fortune’s face by correcting her assessment of his predicament.

“I’ll see you in the next hell, Artemis,” With that, she called on the magic of her cloak, and lifted off down the tunnels.

When the cavern was silent once more, the assassin relaxed against the wall, wrapping a protective arm around the ranger at his side. He gave the drow a gentle squeeze and growled harshly in his ear, “I know you can’t hear me, Do’Urden, but when we get back to the surface you are going to wait on me hand and foot for this.”

Drizzt didn’t even stir.


	22. Playing the Game

Quenthel was enraged when Andrzel came to see her and she demanded to know why he wasn’t tending to his forces like he was ordered.

“Something has come up,” Andrzel held out his hands “Jarlaxle has already been captured. He refuses to speak to anyone but you.”

The matron tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at him, “Then, bring him to me.”

Andrzel made a face, reluctant to deliver the news, “Well, that’s just the thing. My troops aren’t the ones that captured him.” When Quenthel continued to stare at her weapon’s master angrily, he added, “He requests you take the prisoner personally, and I think you’ll want to.”

“Why?”

Andrzel sighed, “It’s Tiago.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Two floors.

It took Drizzt two floors to work up the nerve and composure to actually ask questions.

“How- How long have I been here?” his voice sounded so small.

Regis didn’t hesitate to answer, making a point to look at Drizzt over his shoulder, “It’s hard to tell from our end. Time flows differently on the astral plane, but if I had to wager a guess: ten days? Maybe thirteen? I know it isn’t less than seven; given that we had Artemis for four and it must have taken him a few days to prepare and find you.”

The halfling kept talking until he saw the stricken look on the ranger’s face soften a little. He knew Drizzt was having a hard time digesting the entire situation and believing what his eyes and ears told him. He did not envy the ranger’s position by a long shot.

“Did-“ He heard Drizzt’s voice catch, and took it upon himself to predict the question and answer it so he didn’t have to ask.

“As far as we know, nothing’s been done to you other than the restraints,” he tried to sound reassuring, “though I think Lolth may be crafting a doppelgänger to replace you on the Prime Material Plane and do her bidding.”

Drizzt shrank at the response. “Has she succeeded?”

“The one I stumbled upon barely looked like you, so I’d wager on no” the ranger obviously didn’t appreciate the humor.

They continued to travel in silence for the rest of that floor. Regis knew they were close to the top of the cliff now and he’d have to prepare Drizzt for what lay ahead. If he reacted so badly to the temple, he might be completely immovable at the sight of the forest fire at the edge of the pit. But, before he could start speaking, the ranger was asking questions again:

“Where are we going, exactly?”

Regis cleared his throat and pulled Drizzt into a small, shadowed alcove. “At the top of the cliff is a forest, and there’s a place in that forest where a portal can be opened to take us to Iruladoon.”

“You know how to open this portal?” the drow was starting to seem more like himself, focused on the task at hand and ready to face anything; a soft, eager smile ghosting beneath his worried and dour expression.

Regis made a face, trying to coax the Drizzt he knew back out, if only for a moment, “It’s on a timer of sorts.”

“Of sorts?”

The halfling smiled, “We may have to loiter, but it’ll open for us, I’m sure.”

Drizzt returned the look, only for a moment but Regis saw it, “You know the way?”

“I’ve taken measures to insure that the way can be found.”

The drow took a long, deep breath to steady himself. He was tense, Regis could tell, and the halfling wished he knew of something he could say to comfort his friend. All he did was reach up and place a hand on Drizzt’s arm, since he was too short to reach his shoulder.

“I’ll need a weapon,” Drizzt said, “Who knows what’s in that forest.”

Regis wanted to answer, but a thunderous wave of noise shook the ground beneath them; pounding foot falls, bestial cries of outrage and hunger. “No time,” he tugged Drizzt out of the alcove and up the hall, “They know you’re gone.”

Drizzt didn’t argue, letting Regis push him ahead and call out directions from the rear instead of slowing the elf down. The ranger looked back at him only once, and Regis saw anger there; as if Drizzt expected the halfling to betray him and disappear. He shot the elf a nervous smile and urged him along, having to sprint to keep up.

The footfalls were growing louder, doors banged open behind them, and the clatter of breaking and fallen furniture was almost lost in tempest.

His friend slowed at the first whiff of smoke in the air. He came to a complete stop when they reached the door way, shaking his head and nearly taking a step back had Regis not been there to stop him. “Drizzt, it’s the only way out.”

“Regis-“

“It’s this or back in the Pit,” he pointed to the cliff overlooking Drizzt’s now-empty prison, “or maybe even worse. Don’t lose your nerve now, you’re better than that.”

For a moment, Regis wasn’t sure the ranger heard him. He could see movement in the temple on the edges of his vision and tried to shake Drizzt back into reality.

They were going to be spotted and captured and Catti-Brie was about to open a portal to an empty, burning forest.

“ _Drizzt,”_ Regis shoved him, “Drizzt, you need to stay with me. We’re not going to have a whole lot of chances at this and I don’t want to be damned because you can’t get ahold of yourself.” When he saw the ranger was starting to come back to himself, Regis pressed harder, “Catti-Brie’s waiting for us, she can’t send you back if you aren’t there.”

The name got his attention, he looked ready to ask a series of questions, but Regis wasn’t about to let him start; he just pointed and said he would explain everything when they were in a safer spot and not about to be eaten. Though the halfling knew he’d probably come to regret letting Drizzt hope for a reunion with his wife, he wasn’t really in a position to care.

Whatever kept the ranger moving at this point was worth whatever tongue-lashing Catti-Brie could give him when all was said and done.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Their thoughts swirled around the open air; confusion and alarm in the slaves and fodder-troops, curiosity and even humor in the drow. The thoughts and feelings moved as one gust of nervous, energized wind to the northern part of the Baenre complex as the soldiers were called into formation by their superiors. Kimmuriel tried to pick out words, but with everyone thinking loudly and at once all he managed to do was worsen his already pounding headache and decided he’d rather just not know. Even when Valas stopped at the gate and declined to enter the Baenre house proper, the psionicist didn’t bother to pry into his thoughts as to why.

Valas had no noose to hang him with, so he got to keep his secrets to himself this time around.

The messenger that led Kimmuriel to the chapel, however, was fair game; he knew nothing of why the Oblodra had been summoned or even the details of the military mobilization. Not that this was surprising news, of course the messenger would know nothing, especially if Quenthel sent the boy after _him_ of all people.

_Jarlaxle, what have you done?_

When they arrived at the temple, a pair of guards were waiting for them. “The Matron Mother has asked you wait inside,” one said before even being prompted.

“She’s not even here?” Kimmuriel couldn’t stop the growl in the back of his throat, “She dragged me here and she’s going to make me wait?”

Both guards and the boy at his side all made the same anxious, pained face at him. And, of course they would. Quenthel was their matron; she could do whatever she pleased and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Conceding, Kimmuriel sighed, “Fine. I’ll wait. When is she due back?”

None of them answered. None of them knew.

Kimmuriel sighed again and stepped inside.

He’d always hated the Baenre chapel, even before it was rebuilt. Such a pretentious and lavish display to a goddess that couldn’t care less about what house attached their name to it. Stone and crystal statues lined aisles when seats were in place, just as they were now, for some indoctrinating dreck of a sermon from the priestesses. Curtains of deep purple silk swayed slowly in place at the edges of the room like a hypnotized thrall awaiting orders, casting black shadows against the light of blue and purple faerie fire. The emptiness of the space and high arch of the ceiling caused him to be surrounded by the echo of his own footsteps, a trait he always found the most annoying of the bunch. A close second being the ostentatious throne at the far end of the room Quenthel always sat in to lord her authority over everyone.

Curious as to how alone he truly was, the psionicist listened closely; beyond the shifting of fabric and the scuttling of spiders, to breaths, then to heartbeats, and then thoughts. They jumbled at first, each concealed guard having a conversation with himself at the same time and to Kimmuriel the room was suddenly crowded, each voice right in his ear. They were similar in tone, all male or very masculine female, so it took him a little longer to pick out the individuals. He counted thirteen, including the boy that brought him there and the two outside. All seemed to have the same ideas; bored with their work, wondering why they were required to guard one man in an empty room, and how long before they could join the others, and Kimmuriel shut them out before it got too monotonous.

He took a few more steps into the chapel, less cautious this time, spinning on his heel and pretending to be as bored as was possible when surrounded by assassins, as he tried to scope them out. A few were easy to spot; one behind the statue near the ceiling at his right shoulder, three behind curtains at random places in the room, at least one behind Quenthel’s throne. These were novices, most likely, decoys to be taken out first to allow the more skilled assassins more time for a clearer shot. Quenthel planned for him to do something hostile even though he was supposed to just be waiting.

The realization didn’t hit him hard or even come to him suddenly enough to surprise.

_That was quicker than expected._

 It started as a warmth spreading through his head, soothing the pain that had settled there so Kimmuriel couldn’t focus on it; then, a gentle vibration behind his eyes, the creature easing its way into his senses. The psionicist stopped it before it could probe into his personal thoughts, instead feeding it a string of aloof ideas, that he had more important work to do, that he’d rather speak to the matron and not her pet.

The illithid seemed to take offense to that, stepping out into the open and facing him directly.

_I am not some pet._ The creature said as it approached, and the air in the room shifted. The guards had not been aware a mind flayer was among them, _Quenthel has hired me to interrogate you. She claims you are a psionicist on no small merit, Master Oblodra and she would be a fool to face you alone._

A prideful smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, “She is right, but you do not sound so convinced.”

_I am not._

Another unsurprising turn of events.

_You need only answer my questions, Master Oblodra,_ the creature crossed the room to him, stopping just short of the distance two people would hold a formal conversation, _and then you shall be released._

“To Quenthel’s custody for torture,” Kimmuriel supplied, “Yes, yes. I am familiar with the game. Sadly, I do not have time to banter with you today. I have been through a great ordeal and still have many other tasks to take care of before I can act leisurely. Another time?” He started his way out of the chapel, “Perhaps when Quenthel is willing to grace us with her presence?”

He made it back to the rows of seats before the creature demanded he stop. And, stop Kimmuriel did, but he did not turn about to face the matron’s pet. Instead, he cast a sidelong glance to the assassin hidden near the ceiling. He listened, honed in on the young novice’s thoughts; the boy hadn’t even noticed Kimmuriel was looking at him. With a single word, he overpowered the boy’s thoughts, and broke the concentration he was using to levitate: _fall._

He scrambled to catch himself, a sign of poor training. A better assassin would have just taken a short distance to regain his concentration and float back up into position. But this one panicked, trying to find a handhold on the smooth marble statue that cloaked him in shadow and then falling, soundless and fearful to his death against the polished floor. The noise he made on impact echoed through the room.

Kimmuriel conceded that the damnable echo could have some advantages then.

The room grew still for several moments after that.

_Am I supposed to be impressed?_

Kimmuriel turned on his heel, wicked smile tearing a white stripe across his dark face, “I was not aware I was supposed to impress you.” He shrugged, “I suppose I could. I was exposed to a rather impressive display of power today, and I would like to try my hand at replicating it.”

When he felt the illithid pry into his thoughts about this display of power, Kimmuriel offered up images of the two illithids sent to aid him in Gauntlgrym, the brain-mate, and its effect on the primordial; the last memory being stolen from only human remaining in Do’Urden’s dismembered party.

The creature took a step back.

“Are you nervous?” Kimmuriel taunted. “You should be. I am not about to stand here and be poked and prodded by some puffed up cuttlefish of a psionicist. I intend to go on my way and you will let me.”

It squared its feet, a simple yet ready position. It expected a fight, _You think your words are intimidating?_

The dark elf pursed his lips, “You still don’t take me seriously?” He dropped to formalities and shortened his language, “That’s fine. Perhaps a display of my merits is in order.” He popped his neck loudly, “Allow me to demonstrate.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Tiago watched Quenthel and Andrzel arrive at the northern wall of the Baenre complex from a comfortable seat in the scaffolding of a half-finished building. Jarlaxle’s portable hole had made short work of the fence and any other barriers that stood in his way, even if the mercenary did give him dirty looks that became downright enraged when Tiago decided not to return his hat. Instead, he chose to don the accessory himself, even if he knew he couldn’t pull off anything that ostentatious.

“About time,” he called down to them.

Andrzel was the first to scowl at him. “So, the traitor returns home.”

“Taitor?” Tiago scoffed, feigning offense.

The weapon’s master was about to comment back when Quenthel stopped him with a raised hand, “Don’t.” She kept her eyes trained on the mercenary, “How do we know that’s really him?”

A curt smile and Tiago tore away the cloth gag around Jarlaxle’s face allowing him to speak once more.

“Matron,” Jarlaxle smiled at her, “You look tense.”

Her lip curled in a snarl and she bit the air as she spoke, “Tense? Me? Now why would I possibly be tense? Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you _stole something from me._ ”

“I would hardly call the Chosen a ‘something’” Jarlaxle quipped back, “And, in my defense, I did none of the actual stealing.”

“I saw you,” Andrzel accused, “With that human. You aided him in the kidnapping, you cannot deny that.”

Jarlaxle sighed, eyes closed, and shook his head. “Allow me to explain something to the idiot you’ve placed in charge of your army,” he said to Quenthel, before rounding on Andrzel, “You obviously do not understand two things. One, how physically capable Drizzt Do’Urden is in single combat, and two just who the human I was with was. He’s an assassin, over a century old and a master of his craft. And he faced Drizzt Do’Urden in single combat more times than anyone else I could name.”

Andrzel screwed up his face in confusion. Quenthel just lowered her gaze.

“He has never been the victor,” Jarlaxle continued. “Now, answer this question for me: if Drizzt was capable of besting this human in combat, how is he missing? How was this man able to take him down and steal him away, even though he could not prove victorious when he dedicated his very life to hunting the man?”

Tiago was smiling even wider now. This was going even better than expected.

“I took no part in any ‘kidnapping’ as you put it,” the mercenary concluded, “because there _was_ no kidnapping. If Drizzt Do’Urden did not want to leave, he would not have allowed himself to be taken. The whole thing was a ruse to make the Baenre family look incompetent and spark hostilities when word got out.”

“And you participated in this?” Quenthel was nearly shaking with anger, “You aided them in this ruse?”

Jarlaxle shrugged, an action barely noticeable under the layers of webbing that bound him, “I have no true ties to this house or anyone in it. If it falls, all I see is changed name on my maps. Your status does not matter to me, Quenthel.”

“Then why do it at all?” Andrzel spoke while the matron huffed quietly.

The mercenary stared at Quenthel, an angry expression slowly taking over his face, “She tampered with my guild, turned one of my most loyal lieutenants against me, and had a valuable ally enslaved for decades. Certainly you did not expect me to just take that lying down, did you?”

“You could have ruined me!” She shouted.

“Good.”

Quenthel raved at him angrily for several long moments, but Jarlaxle would say no more. “I want him taken to the dungeon and I want to deal with him personally.”

But, Tiago was not about to release his prisoner so easily, “I take it my prize is enough to grant me entrance to the house?”

“I am done with dealing with traitors, boy.” The matron snapped at him.

Again, Tiago feigned a hurt look, “The only traitor here is this one,” he pointed to Jarlaxle. “I do not know what those Xorlarrin whelps told you, Matron Mother, but I have not betrayed you.”

He was met with looks of disbelief.

“I admit, my designs in Icewind Dale and Ashenglade ended in failure. I was weighed down by Xorlarrins and unable to act freely in my attempts to capture Do’Urden.”

“’Capture’?” Andrzel scoffed, “The reports said you wanted him dead.”

The younger drow rolled his eyes, “And of course you would believe them, you’ve had it out for me since I revealed I had eyes on your position. You’ve been trying to make me look bad ever since I went to the academy.”

“Five years late,” Andrzel spat.

For a moment, rage welled up in the young drow warrior; his jaw clenched painfully and he ground his teeth together in an attempt to hold on to his composure. “Thank you for proving my point.” He turned his attention more fully to Quenthel, “My intents were only to capture the Do’Urden, and send him back to you, Matron Mother. The Xorlarrin priestesses painted me in a bad light. They’re trying to root out all Baenre influences in Gauntlgrym. To take the ruin for themselves. They have no intent to start a sister city to Menzoberranzan, they want to settle a house there, to raise an army there far from your eyes, and perhaps even march to overthrow you with primordial-forged weapons to bear.”

Quenthel rocked back on her heels. When the silence dragged on, Andrzel turned to her, “You can’t possibly believe this.”

“It would not be the first time a house has attempted such a strategy,” she made series of quiet, angry noises, “the fact that Zeerith came for my blessing and my aid…” She looked up at Tiago, “Why did it take you so long to return here and tell me this?”

Tiago put on his best sullen look, “By the time I found out about the plot, the priestesses had already sent word to you of my apparent betrayal. I knew that I could not catch the missive in time, so I placed myself in exile until I could find a way to win back your lost favor, and be able to give you the truth. Originally I tried to capture Do’Urden, but then I heard whispers among the mercenaries of Jarlaxle’s revenge plot. And the rest you can plainly see.”

A long silence followed.

The young fighter knew he would never be able to convince Andrzel of his innocence, and the weapon’s master’s face was proof enough, but Andrzel didn’t matter. He watched the matron closely as she processed the information and weighed its plausibility against her own paranoia. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jarlaxle still maintaining his visage of anger and not reacting at all to Tiago’s story. Briefly, he wondered why the mercenary had not called him out, even though he knew the truth about both the Xorlarrins and his intentions at Ashenglade. Perhaps Jarlaxle wanted Tiago to own him a favor in what little future was left for him? Or he somehow benefitted from Tiago’s lie taking hold? If so, how? How could he possibly benefit from this?

Try as he might, Tiago could not come up with any ideas.

“Alright,” Quenthel finally said, her voice calm. “Tiago, I’ll take the hat and your prisoner. You may retire to your chambers to the rest and refresh from your journey, then you shall report to Andrzel for instructions on how to handle the Xorlarrins. Understood?”

“Yes, Matron Mother,” it took every ounce of restraint Tiago had in him to not laugh at the appalled face Andrzel shot at Quenthel’s back as she walked away, motioning for the priestesses she’d had hidden a way off to return to their posts.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“What do we send to Zeerith?” Saribel nearly jumped at the sound of her sister’s voice behind her.

The cleanup in the aftermath of what most of the underlings were calling “the Blizzard” was nearing completion. Saribel had claimed she was checking their work as an excuse to wander the complex unhindered. She’d checked the cages first to find that Berellip’s story about the driders had been true.

Ravel had been right about the sabotage and not just paranoid. The realization was not comforting.

“That the primordial is under control,” she replied, voice even, “the complex is still ours, but we lost the driders in the fray. It’s not like they will be missed.”

“What about-“

Before Berellip could finish her question, Saribel pulled a large bag from its hiding place behind her cloak. Something heavy and metallic rattled within. Without a word, the priestess took the bag in both hands and threw it over the lingering ice and rush of water and into the swirling fires.

“I see.” Berellip clicked her tongue, “And the Baenres? You don’t think they’ll talk?”

Saribel arched an eyebrow at her, “You think it will matter if they do? Without proof otherwise it is their word against mine and my word is not only plausible, it is the most informed. They will not be a problem.”

Her sister nodded, satisfied with the answer. “I’ve heard whispers that the army in Neverwinter has decided not to march upon us. It seems they had an arrangement with Do’Urden’s lot to stay in the city and let them handle this.” Berellip shook her head, “To think, a group of six did all of this. Imagine what an army could have done.”

Blood and pools of water surrounded them in the primordial chamber. Around the edges of the still-burning pit, glittering emerald ice melted slowly into the whirlpool, tinting it green and seeming to bolster the power of the water elementals. At its center, the primordial itself had lost some of its hellish red glow, settling into its usual yellow and orange.

Several makeshift infirmaries had been set up in the forge chambers to tend to the wounded. Healing draughts had to be rationed and in the absence of clerical magic entirely too many of their soldiers were rendered unable to fight. Those at risk of losing limbs were killed outright instead of having to force available persons to monitor amputation injuries and infections.

At times during her rounds, Saribel had wondered if she’d made the wrong decision to try to stop Do’Urden’s group at the door. But then, she remembered the power of the Baenre rumor-mill and that the matrons would rather lose fighters than have their priestesses seem soft on surfacers; even if that stance meant placing acting leadership in precarious positions.

“The other priestesses wouldn’t have handled it differently,” Berellip said. It wasn’t comforting or gentle, only a statement of fact, “The only believe that they could have been more successful. There is no threat to your position yet.”

“Except for you,” Saribel scowled at her reflection in the ice. What kind of magic had these people possessed?

She saw her sister’s reflection shake her head, “No. I do not want whatever madness comes with this place.”

“That won’t stop you from having an opinion,” Saribel sneered.

“Several opinions, actually,” Berellip supplied, “and has anything ever stopped that?”

She rounded on her sister, “I recall a certain mistress at the academy that shut you up for three days.”

“That never happened,” a sly smirk broke across Berellip’s face, “and you know it.”

They laughed.

“Let me aid you,” Berellip said abruptly, “Gauntlgrym is worthless if we cannot hold control over it for more than a few years before disaster. Zeerith was promised a city, not an encampment.”

Again, Saribel arched an eyebrow, “You are proposing a truce? An alliance even?”

“Nonsense, I still want power in the end as much as you do,” she laughed, “I’m proposing a cease-fire between us. To combine our efforts for as long as it takes to make this place _worth_ fighting over.”

Berellip held out her left hand, her right open and in plain view. After a moment’s hesitation, Saribel returned the gesture and they shook on it.

“Now,” Saribel said, standing a little taller, “let us find out what Ravel meant when he raved about this place being cursed.”

The other priestess nodded, “Good that you said that. I have something to show you.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

When she left, Quenthel had expected to come back to raised voices, stalling tactics, and just a headache in general. She knew Kimmuriel would prove to be uncooperative with attempts to get answers even if she had something that could match his mental prowess. She had expected to return to having to shout orders to have him carted away and thrown in a cell of his own far, far away from Jarlaxle’s.

What she actually returned to was carnage.

All of the guards she had assigned to keep the Oblodra in place were dead and scattered about the floor in varying degrees of dismemberment. Some were whole, still twitching, bleeding from the eyes, ears, and nose, staring blankly at fixed points with dead eyes; at least those that still had their eyes. Others looked as though they had fallen from the ceiling, their bodies twisted and broken, seeping blood onto the marble from unseen wounds. The door guards that were supposed to stay outside were closest to her, looking like they had been dragged to their deaths.

Her crystal fixtures lay strewn in pieces about the room, making the floor look like black, sparkling water mixed with bright red ink. Anything that wasn’t fastened to the stone found a new place on the far edges of the room, and even a few statues from the highest moldings had been brought down and crumbled; rocks on the edge of this black sea of death.

“I do not know why you like this chair so much,” Kimmuriel’s voice said beside her, “It isn’t even comfortable.”

She whirled around on him. He was sitting, looking comfortable despite his claim otherwise, on her throne, sipping what was probably sacramental wine from her crystal glass. His feet were propped up on something; it took her a moment to realize it was the carcass of the illithid she’d employed. Mostly because its entire face was beaten to a pulpy mess.

“What did- how,” she stammered, unsure whether she should be terrified or enraged.

“I would invest in sturdier guards,” he said, pointing around the room with her glass before draining it, “these were much too easy to dominate. And this one,” he kicked the corpse beneath his heel “this was a joke.”

Quenthel stared at him.

“I’m not in much of a joking mood, Matron.” He threw the glass at her, and she only narrowly avoided it.

The matron decided both terrified _and_ enraged was the best choice of mood for this scenario, “How dare you?”

Kimmuriel rose from his seat, a single fluid motion that placed him on the opposite side of his footrest without having to take a step around it. “Excuse me? You drag me to your chapel, most likely to accuse me of a crime I had nothing to do with, and then when I arrive you are not only nowhere to be found, but you send children and cuttlefish to make me wait for you?” She could tell he was struggling not to raise his voice at her, “I am tired of everyone and their sister thinking I’m just some sort of pushover that can be shuffled around and stay complacent. I am a busy man and I do not have time for your game.”

He started off toward the door when she stopped him. “You betray me and kill my guards and you still have the audacity to say I am at fault here?”

“Betray you?” Kimmuriel started for her, “I’ve followed every order you’ve given me, and it has brought me nothing but hardship.”

“I told you,” She got close to him, using her slight advantage in height to bolster her resolve, “to kill Artemis Entreri, and put Jarlaxle back in Menzoberranzan. You did neither of these things.”

He snarled at her and she felt it rattle her own teeth, “No. You told me to stop the Netherese from declaring war on your city. Which I did. You told me to convince Jarlaxle to not try and win back the prize they wanted and spark conflict again. _Which I did_. And to this day I have yet to see any fruits of my labors.”

“You expect me to reward such a half-assed job done?” It was hard to maintain her authority when surrounded by solid proof of what the male was capable of, but she managed, “To reward disloyalty? Did you not hand the guild back to Jarlaxle?”

Kimmuriel took a step back, “Don’t kid yourself into thinking I don’t know what this is about. You didn’t want Jarlaxle back here, you wanted the mercenaries in your pocket. And now you’re upset because you know that isn’t going to happen. Get over yourself.” She reached out to slap him, but he caught her hand. “You know how this will end if you draw that weapon.”

She stared hard at him.

“Seventy years ago, you told me I had to make a choice. Did I want privilege or did I want to clean up after Jarlaxle for the rest of my life?” He released her arm, “I have made my choice. And it is not to side with the family that threw mine into the Clawrift, but the man that spared me that fate.”

“There was a reason your matron was thrown in there,” Quenthel snapped at him, “Insolence like yours.”

He clucked at her, “No, K’yorl was thrown into the Clawrift for trying to overthrow the Baenres. I am not doing that. I act only in my own interests, not for domination. I want one thing and one thing only:” his voice darkened, “I want to be _left alone._ ”

He turned on his heel and started to leave.

“You walk out on me now, you better not show your face in this city again,” she shouted after him. “I will have every person in this place hunting you for the promise of the Spider Queen’s favor and the position of power you vacated.”

He laughed at her, loudly and for a long time, “Quenthel, you are a fool to think you will be able to maintain power that long.” They were across the room from each other, but she could hear his voice as well as if he were standing beside her. “If I have learned anything in these past few years, it is that _true_ chaos is coming. And I do not think you are ready for it. You are too stuck in the old ways. A stagnant old hag like your mother, and soon the thing you worship so blindly will destroy you.”

Quenthel was shrieking at him now, her voice echoing throughout the room to produce a hellish symphony of noise, “You insolent cur! I am the Matron Baenre! Matron of all of Menzoberranzan! How dare you speak to me this way?”

When she finally stopped screaming, Kimmuriel only looked at her, smiled softly and said in a calm, dulcet tone, “I don’t see your god coming to stop me.” He turned on his heel a final time, and left.

Quenthel continued to scream threat after threat at his back, calling for guards too far away to hear her to seize him and take him away, until her voice failed her and all she could do was make a shrill hissing sound.


	23. The Burning Forest

The softness of ashy grass beneath his feet as he stepped from the stone of the temple onto the bluff. Swirls of warm air, smoky on his left, pungent on his right, caught his sleeves and tossed his hair about. Ashes from burning trees fell on them like dusty grey snow, the cracks of dry wood splintering beneath the heat like shocking, sudden thunder. Blinding orange-yellow light blocked only by the edge of the cliff but still blinding his peripheral vision, a dim glow among the trees on the other side left him disoriented and seeing spots. Above all, dulling his senses to the world  presented to him, the sounds of pursuit; vibrations of heavy footfalls shaking the earth, dark shadows breaking up the light, roars and shrieks of anger drowning out sound like a wall between whispering thieves and an eavesdropper.

At first Drizzt thought his senses would overload a second time, just as they had when he first entered the temple. But, strangely enough somewhere between the smell of burning wood, the feel of the grass, and the warm smoky air, he found himself stabilizing quickly. He stood on the edge of a forest, albeit one set ablaze, but a forest nonetheless. Something in his chest ached when he turned to face it fully, an ache of outrage and anger. He focused on it, used it to drown out the lingering suspicion and fear.

Even if this was a trap, someone would pay for all of this. Whether it was the creature posing as his friend making promises of a reunion with the woman he loved, or the Queen of Spiders herself.

Someone would pay for bringing him to this point.

His anger lacked the bestial quality the ranger had grown used to holding back all of these years. It bubbled, it raged, but it did not roar. He felt strangely empty as he turned to Regis, “You know how to get to her?”

The halfling straightened and looked a little nervous, “I have marked the way.” He took off past Drizzt along the edge of the wood at a slow jog, eyes cast to the trees.

The drow took off behind him, keeping some distance and scanning the shadows and fallen limbs closely. Anything could be hiding in that wood, ready to jump out at them. The dark spots danced with the light threateningly, but were little more than a bluff on their own. A quick glance back to the temple entrance showed him more taunting shadows, deeper ones, black and inky things that could have become creatures themselves if Drizzt dropped his guard long enough to let them inch closer.

He wasn’t going to do that though. Not now. Not after he’d made it through the Pit and the temple.

A low whistle from Regis pulled his attention back to the thin strip of treeless cliff ahead of him. The halfling was standing on a root pointing to the trunk of a tree. A hastily carved rune stuck out against the soot-darkened bark. “This way.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Athrogate scratched at his jaw. He hadn’t expected Ambergris to cut off as much of his beard as she did, and certainly hadn’t expected her to be able to pin him down long enough to do so. He cast a fond look at her when she had her back turned.

His usual setup of two long braids had to be condensed into one thick rope of hair hanging straight from his chin and the frontmost part of his jaw; the sides, however, were trimmed short almost to stubble all the way up to his sideburns. Despite his reservations, and opening fighting at first, he had to admit, the cleric did well in fixing his broken beard and mending his wounded pride.

She’d laughed at the face he made and said any negative comments would be an affront to her family. “Had an uncle that wore his beard the same way,” she’d said cheerily when she checked her work for the third time, “Although, he lost a chunk o’ his jaw in a mining accident so, that may not be the best example to use.” She clapped him on the shoulder before tucking the small mirror away and setting back to work, “At least it looks intentional now.”

So lost was the dwarf in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the cleric calling for his attention until she clapped her hands a few inches from his face. “Oi, if yer gonna be useless, go keep watch an’ fetch me someone who’ll help.”

He snorted at her, taking the bedroll she offered him and tossing it over his shoulder, “I dunno what yer plannin’ to accomplish settin’ up a fancy camp like thi-“

The cleric snapped her fingers, about to round on him angrily, but lost momentum about halfway through the action, “It’s an intentionally organized set up.” She pointed to bedrolls laid out, the space between them, and the objects beside them. “The hearty are in the front,” she explained, “me an’ ye. Then the two least likely to be injured anytime soon: Aff an’ the caster. The fire goes between them an’ the injured.” She pointed to a small, unlit fire pit, “And then at the back, where they can be easily defended, I’ll be puttin’ the wounded and the potential prisoner.”

She turned back around, hands on her hips, “If I set it up like this now, I won’t have to shuffle people around later. If ye got a problem with the way I organize my camp, tough biscuits.”

Athrogate held up his hands defensively, “I waddn’t sayin’ I had a problem. Just wonder’d why all this work was goin in to something as simple as a camp. Normally ye just toss yer bedrolls ‘round a fire an sleep.”

“This ain’t a normal situation,” She countered. “This stopped bein’ a normal situation when the ranger broke his holy symbol.”

“That still botherin’ ye?” Athrogate couldn’t even finish the question before the cleric shot him a look that answered it. “He’s a ranger, not a cleric,” he tried to defend himself, “his holy symbol isn’t as,” a pause as he tried to find the word and came up empty, “ _holy._ ”

The cleric’s scowl only deepened. “I’m gonna pretend ye didn’t just say that to me,” she shook her head, exasperated, “Yer as bad as Entreri with the blasphemy sometimes.”

The fighter shuffled his feet.  “My apologies.”

Again, the cleric sighed, and Athrogate could really see the weight settling upon her shoulders, “Accepted. Now, go get me someone useful to help me finish settin’ up.” When the other dwarf arched an eyebrow she added, “Aff. I need to get him away from that warlock before I end up with another Parbid-type situation.” She groaned loudly, as if the idea alone offended her.

The tension between them dissipated, Athrogate tossed an arm about her shoulders and pulled her close, even getting a soft smile and a rough push when he planted a wet kiss to her temple. “Farewell m’lady,” he called as he jogged away.

She threw a rock at him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Branches cracked dangerously overhead as rogue and ranger picked their way below them. Layers of ash swept up in fluctuating winds shifted enough to reveal threatening embers teasing with their dim glow.

“How many trees did you mark?” Drizzt asked as they passed another rune.

“Not many,” Regis called back, making a face, “We have to be getting close.” He pointed to another one and ran up to it.

He didn’t sound so sure of himself.

“Something the matter?” Drizzt lingered just out of the halfling’s reach watching carefully. Regis didn’t answer for some time, looking back the way they came, then to the path ahead of them.

This didn’t feel right.

Not wanting to wait for Regis to say something, Drizzt did a sweep of the area; no footsteps, no motion, even the sounds of their pursuers had been drowned out by the roar of the flaming canopy that blocked out whatever sky this place had.

“Something’s here,” Regis said quietly, doing a similar quick survey of his own.

Drizzt shook his head, “I don’t see anything.” The ranger knew he was right, however. Something had to be out here. This was almost too easy.  “Yet.”

“Keep an eye out,” the halfling was already halfway to the next marked tree.

The ranger nodded and fell into step behind him.

They travelled for what felt like ages, sometimes having to quick-step across coals or jump over a fallen tree or two. At one Drizzt thought he could hear the shrill shrieking of animals trapped echoing around them and had to force himself not to go toward it. “It isn’t real,” he whispered to himself, “They aren’t really there.” As if to mock him the noise grew louder for a while, but died down when he didn’t give into it.

Regis signaled Drizzt to stop. Eyebrow arched and jaw tight he trotted up beside him. “This can’t be the place.”

“It isn’t,” he sighed. “Look. What do you see?”

First, Drizzt looked at the rune on the tree; it looked just like the others, smooth straight lines and curves darkened a little by soot and smoke, but an extra marking, a jagged “X” brighter than the others a little off to the side. Then, a quick look to the area around them only to see the same burning brambles and gnarled roots he’d-

They’d gone in a circle.

“Oh no,” Drizzt buried his face in his hands and leaned against the tree and sank down.

“Whatever it is, it’s smart,” Regis ran a hand through his hair. “And quick enough that you can’t sense it.”

Drizzt made a pitiful noise. Either some external thing was leading them in a circle or Regis was intentionally doing so and playing it off to buy their pursuers time. He shook his head, trying to force the second option out of his mind. He’d already decided to trust in his old companion, he wasn’t going to stop just because something had gone wrong.

He straightened, steeling his resolve. “We’ll have to pick a direction and go straight.” He turned to his friend, “What does this place look like?”

“It’s a clearing. Not very big, but enough to be noticeable,” Regis replied.

“This is last one we stopped at?” Drizzt asked, pointing to the little “X.” When the halfling nodded, “Let’s go this way,” he pointed in the direction they had taken off the first time.

“The same way?”

“Yes.” He started off before Regis could argue.

Again, they passed several of the markings that may or may not have been Regis’s, Drizzt leading the way this time. Their momentum slowed as the terrain became unfamiliar once more.

The animal screams were back.

On a hunch, Drizzt veered toward them.

“What is that? Birds?” Regis called up to him, “I didn’t hear this last time.”

“Not birds,” Drizzt paused long enough for the halfling to catch up and listened, “small mammals, rabbits, foxes maybe.” The longer he stood still straining his ears the more garbled and otherworldly the sound became. He smirked a little, prideful that his previous assertion to the sound’s falsehood had been correct, “Well, something imitating them at least.”

“So we’re going _toward_ the imitator,” Regis sounded nervous.

_Crack!_

A sudden noise close and loud jarred both of their attentions upward. Drizzt was the first to react, darting out of the way of the falling limb and dragging the rogue behind him as he went. They landed in a cloud of embers and flaming twigs.

-0-0-0-0-0-

When her wings scraped the walls, Dahlia was forced to land and take to travelling on foot. Most of the tunnels still looked familiar and she’d made it all the way back to those strangely marked walls where she and Tiago had encountered the strange humanoid. She smiled at herself, having made good time, better than what she would have with the drow slowing her down.

As she landed, Dahlia contemplated lighting her way despite the warning she’d been given about the denizens of the Underdark. The light would make her feel safer and perhaps she could blind the lightless beasts with it if they got too close. It was tempting.

But she decided against it. Ultimately relying on the sight the gem offered her.

She travelled quite a distance unmolested, her soft shoes making hardly a whisper of noise against the grit on the ground. Her sensitive ears picked up distant noises; a light swish, a rumble, a clang or two, dripping water.

Such a strange place, this Underdark.

Several times Dahlia could have sworn there was something behind her or lingering in the shadows above her, getting closer, almost too close. She would pick up her pace to a run in an effort to force a hostile onlooker into chasing her if they wanted to make a meal of her. But nothing chased her. On one particular burst of speed her heart didn’t settle once she stopped.

Something was nearby, watching her, lurking in the shadows, she was sure of it.

A small part of her Dahlia really wished hadn’t chimed in at this particular moment longed for Tiago’s company again, or anyone’s company for that matter, just to have someone to ask if they felt it too.

“Nothing is there,” she whispered to herself, “It’s a trick.” She spun in a small circle, taking in the space around her. Down one of the intersecting tunnels she could see a dimly glowing moss, a soft green, in the distance.

A dark shadow swept across it.

The elf took a step back, staff ready. “It’s nothing. Just some animal, nothing you can’t handle.” She winced, “Stop talking to yourself like a crazy person.”

Nothing came for her and she lowered her weapon. With the threat temporarily abated, Dahlia pulled herself together even more. Or attempted to. She wondered how long she’d been down there, how long she’d been alone.

Probably not more than a couple of days total, several hours on her own. And she was already losing it.

Drizzt had spent years down here.

Suddenly so much of the dark elf’s behavior made sense to her.

“No wonder you never wanted to be alone,” She mumbled, but didn’t like the idea as soon as it left her lips, “No. Not alone. Without friends, huh?” What was this feeling welling up in her stomach? Sympathy? Remorse? Had she been too harsh on the drow for craving the people he knew he could trust instead of having to hunt for new ones? He had been right in not trusting her or Entreri or any of the others, they’d almost all tried to kill him at some point or another.

Didn’t excuse him leading her on for so long though, she reminded herself in an effort to not get too sentimental about the man.

Shaking her head and sending her long, thin braid whipping at her side, Dahlia started up again.  She wasn’t a child and it was just a little darkness playing tricks on her. It was no more dangerous than the dungeons and basements of Thay or the wilds around it. She’d made it to power in the face of such evil, she could make it to the surface through this. Once again a smile spread across her face.

The elf picked up her pace, not quite running, and focused on recalling the turns and tunnels she’d been led through to get back to that first thoroughfare.

Fear crept up on her again and she stopped a second time.

She listened, trying to use hyper-aware senses to her advantage, but really only hearing simple tunnel noises echoing off the walls. Again, she felt watched, followed even.

It was a single, loud tap of a heel behind her that gave away her stalker’s location. Intentional, she was certain. It was close, within grappling distance if necessary. There was moment’s worth of hesitation, no doubt spent looking her up and down to gauge her threat level, and she seized the opportunity. Dahlia spun on her heel, swinging her staff in a wide arc. She wasn’t expecting to do much damage, just gain space to work with and maybe surprise.

But her opponent hit the floor, ducking out of range, and popped back up in time to catch the staff with both hands when Dahlia attempted to swing the other way.

Another surface elf, smaller and slighter than Dahlia herself. She was dressed strangely, like a poor merchant from a land far off from the sword coast, and certainly not the threat she had immediately posed herself as. Looking at her with both eyes, Dahlia noticed that the eerie golden glow that came from the small woman’s irises was visible in the normal spectrum and not just some trick of the gem.

She relaxed, and the woman released her staff, taking a step back and out of the weapon’s immediate range as she did so.

“Who are you?” Dahlia took a step back herself, unsure what to make of the situation.

The other elf rifled through some pouches on her belt. Eventually she produced a small metallic disc, opened it, and bathed a small section of the tunnel in a strange green glow. “Controlled sphere of light,” she offered as an explanation when Dahlia arched an eyebrow at her. “Who I am isn’t important to you, but the fact that you’ve gone in a circle twice is.”

Without thinking, Dahlia looked about only to realize just how useless and stupid the effort was as she did so. She hadn’t gone in a circle. She’d only taken straight tunnels and familiar passages. There was no way she could have. “No I-“

“You’ve passed my watch post twice,” the girl cut her off eyeing a large alcove in the tunnel wall above them. “If you want to try and convince me that you know what you’re doing down here, go right ahead. I’d like to save you the trouble though by telling you it isn’t going to work.”

Dahlia made a face but dropped the argument, “Well then, what do you want from me? I don’t have much coin.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, flyaway grey hairs dark against her skin, “I don’t need your money, I just need you to stop being a distraction. I catch you back in this tunnel, I’ll have to kill you.”

For a moment Dahlia almost considered giving a taunting remark in response, only to think better of it when she realized that this woman had watched and then snuck up on her without so much as a hint to her presence. It only took one well-executed stealthy assault to kill a person, regardless of their own personal prowess, and Dahlia knew she was at a disadvantage in this territory.

An arched eyebrow, as if the girl had expected a witty retort and was surprised to have not received one. “Alright. The path you’re going to want to take leads to the Moonwood. It’s quick and it’ll get you out of the tunnels and back on your own turf.” She took a few steps past Dahlia, gliding across the ground, and gave very simple directions. “It’ll take a while,” she finished, “the route is roundabout, but those tunnels are mostly clear. Cave-ins tend to uproot natives in that way.”

The girl was about to close her little disk of light when Dahlia asked, “Why are you helping me?”

She opened her mouth as if to answer, but stopped. She stood in silence, listening intently to something only she could hear for several long moments. “I was going to say,” she said slowly, the way one does when a conversation suddenly dropped is picked up again, “to get you out of my field of view. But it seems you have something I want.” Dahlia nearly argued the point, but was met with a simple, sickeningly polite, “Information.”

“What information?”

“The Chosen,” she replied, “and his man. Where are they?”

Dahlia shifted her feet that watched feeling creeping up on her again. “I don’t know. I saw them near the city, but they should be on the move already if they know what’s good for them. They could be anywhere.”

The other woman made a face, but stayed silent for some time. Dahlia saw her golden eyes look at something behind her, between her shoulder and staff with a scowl, and then drop her gaze again apologetically.

Unable to resist to welling anxiety at the idea of being surrounded, Dahlia turned her head to look too.

She’d heard of such creatures, even seen a few drawings, but had never seen one in person. The creature loomed over her shoulder, head turned toward her, eyes unfocused, and tentacles swaying slowly, deliberately. The shadows cast by the dim light pooled in places and exaggerated the creature’s features, making it appear much more intimidating than it might have in proper lighting. It took a step back as Dahlia turned to it allowing her the space to spin and backpedal away.

An illithid. Suddenly she remembered every horrible story, every rumor, and every secondhand account she’d ever heard about the creatures, their awesome intelligence, and immeasurable cruelty. The air grew thin around her.

“My master and I have no intention of harming you right now,” the illithid’s servant sighed, taking Dahlia by the arm with a startlingly strong hands. “We just want you out of our way and not causing any problems for us.”

Unable to remove her eyes, Dahlia nodded. “Fine.”

She was released, only to be recaptured as she tried to get away. “One more question, and then I’ll let you go.” When Dahlia turned to face her, “Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so.”

A follow-up question was coming, but Dahlia saw the girl’s master wave its hand and suddenly she was free. “Go,” the girl warned, closing her disk and snuffing out the light, “quickly.”

Dahlia took off at a run and didn’t slow until her legs finally gave out on her.

-0-0-0-0-0-

It was a shadow lingering on the edge of the broken branch. Drizzt only caught a glimpse of it when he looked up to see the damage. It jumped and darted away, scraping the edge of the canopy. The ranger hastily scrambled to his feet and to safe ground and by the time he looked up again the shadow was long gone.

“You see something?” Regis huffed, patting out embers clinging to his vest.

“I think I saw what’s been following us,” Drizzt replied, “I didn’t get a good look though; I couldn’t tell you what it was.”

Regis looked up with him. “This is bad. We need to get going if we want to make it out in time.” He started to pick his way around the fallen branch, “Still this way, right?”

Drizzt nodded, “Yes. We go around and keep going.”

The screaming of woodland animals had died down, replaced by the chaotic noise of lumbering jailors crashing through trees and brambles to catch up to the drow and the halfling. More than once they heard a tree knocked from its roots, crashing into its brothers. “They’re gaining on us.”

“Probably ‘cause of that damn circle,” Regis quipped back, frustration evident in his voice, “I should have known.”

It took some doing, but the two made their way around the branch and back on their path. Regis began pointing out runes, one’s he’d made, after some distance, and a broke root not too far ahead where he’d fallen on his trek in. They were close to their destination.

Drizzt tried to temper any hope he felt with the knowledge that something very nimble was on their heels, if not ahead of them, but could not contain the joyful grin that pulled at the edges of his mouth. They were almost there. Almost free of this awful place.

A chill air cut the smoky heat at his back. When he turned, he saw the shadow between the trees, just too far to be recognized. Drizzt took a step forward and it darted straight up along the cracking bark and onto the branches, passing over and beside them, racing the two to their destination. The ranger was compelled to lift the halfling from his feet and carry him if it meant getting to their destination before it, but his arms weren’t up to the task.

It would be waiting for them there. Drizzt was certain.

And he had no means to fend it off.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“What are you doing?”

Effron had been at whatever it was he was doing for what felt like hours. He kept turning over a small, hourglass, about a size that could keep a minute’s time, and was whispering to himself. Afafrenfere had tried to ignore the strange man at first, but then found himself both unable to look away and hopelessly confused.

“Experimenting,” Effron answered as he picked up the hourglass and tucked it away. “I had a hunch and wanted to see if it was right.”

Intrigued, the monk pressed, “What manner of hunch?”

The warlock gestured at the sky, “I thought that with the sun and the stars gone time would be not only more difficult to easily measure but might flow differently as well.” He turned to face his companion fully, “It seems I was right.”

“And you got that from looking at an hourglass a bunch of times?” Afafrenfere wasn’t convinced.

Effron tried to fight the smile bubbling up in him, “Not exactly.” He explained his method then, even demonstrated a few times. Draygo Quick had taught Effron and several other apprentices a mnemonic to be able to measure a minute without aid, a skill particularly useful in certain types of time-sensitive crafting or corpse-care. Over the last one hundred minutes Effron compared his mnemonic to the flow of sand through his hourglass and was only accurate a couple of times and ended up wildly off for several. “It’s not a perfect science,” he concluded, “And the flows might be different in different places. But it seems to be the first of several anomalies.”

It was as if the strange flow of time didn’t even faze Effron almost like he’d been expecting it. Afafrenfere however was not so keen on the laws of nature going haywire, “What else is coming?”

The warlock thought for a bit, scratching a spot on the back of his neck, “Draygo did quite a bit of speculating about what might happen when the Sundering came; everything from flaming hail to weightlessness.” He laughed and shook his head, “I was never privy to his musings, but I always thought-“ he stopped suddenly.

“What? Effron?”

He shook his head, a few dark strands of hair falling loose, “No, it’s- I shouldn’t. I don’t want scare you unnecessarily with my morbidity. Let’s just see what happens?”

The monk scowled at him. “Effron. What do you think is going to happen?”

Effron brushed his hair back into place with a sweep of his hand, “I… The gods are gone, right? Well, without them the natural and magical worlds are left ungoverned. Unwatched. As I’ve learned more I’ve theorized that two things will happen: the magical world might collapse on itself, forces from all sides, law and chaos, good and evil, battling for supremacy without neutral gods to intervene and maintain until the planes are separate once more. And the natural world will stop, time will slow, the world will grow cold, and if a decision is not reached in time, it will die off and be reborn when the gods return.”

That felt like a punch to the chest.

“I do think,” Effron quickly added as if to make the whole idea of the world slowly dying more palatable, “That the gods took insurance measures by naming their Chosen. It creates focal points of clerical magic and beacons of hope to allow worshippers to survive a little longer in whatever way the god deems necessary. But that’s just my opinion and, believe me, every scholar that has so much as looked at the Sundering Sonnet has one.”

“And you could all be wrong about the world ending,” Afafrenfere tried to laugh, but really only made some form of hoarse wheezing sound that was embarrassing for the both of them, “right?”

“We could be.”

Something about the idea of everything coming to a stop, nature and life itself being snuffed out like a candle rapidly running out a wick to burn made Afafrenfere feel queasy.  He wondered what the gods would do if all their worshipers died off. Would they recreate the universe? Or just Toril? And how would they do it; reincarnating and resurrecting all that they could or start over from scratch? What did that mean for the ones that died in their god’s absence? Where did all those people go?

“Try not to think about it too much,” Effron patted him on the shoulder, “You’ll drive yourself mad like Draygo did.”

The human smiled at his companion as best he could, somewhat comforted, but still uneasy. “I guess I kinda asked for that, didn’t I?”

“You _are_ a glutton for punishment sometimes.”

“Was that a joke?” Afafrenfere playfully punched the warlock in the arm. Together they laughed in the still night air until the monk sighed, “I suppose you are right though.”

“Let it go. You don’t need to punish yourself more. Enough damage has been done, just let him die.”

“I intend to,” He clapped Effron on the shoulder and received a clap in return.

“ _Oi!”_

As one they both turned to see the source of the sudden noise, a dwarf jogging to meet them.

Afafrenfere couldn’t help himself, “Nice beard.”

“Nice face,” the angry ball of hair and armor quipped back, “be a damn shame if something violent were to happen to it.”

The monk turned away, not wanting to evoke any more wrath.

The gesture was rewarded with a smack to the back of his head. “Yer mom wants ye to help with the camp because I ain’t _organized_ enough for her or some other such nonsense.”

“I suppose that’s supposed to be funny because I actually listen to what Ambergris says?” his light curls bounced as he rubbed the sore spot left behind by the dwarf’s palm. “Instead of just ogling her.”

“ _Bwahaha_ ,” the laugh had a stinging sarcastic edge to it, “Despite popular belief I can do two things at once.”

“Could have fooled me,” Afafrenfere rose and was smacked a second time in the thigh. He turned to Effron, “You sure you can handle this?”

The warlock laughed, “I’d rather have the camp ready whenever these two decide to show up. And, besides, I’ve handled worse.” He gave the monk a pointed look.

The human rolled his eyes, “Oh har, just a few months ago you were the one about to be cast out from the group. Now you’re teaming up with the dwarf to take me down?” He scoffed dramatically, “Typical man.”

Effron shook his fist, playful smile showing pointed teeth. He wanted to make a more insulting gesture, but lacked the necessary limbs. Athrogate did it for him. The three laughed and Afafrenfere set off to the campsite, only to quickly jog back and ask Athrogate for directions much to Effron’s amusement.

“Oh shut up,” The human pouted as he set off a second time.

Athrogate settled in on the ledge at Effron’s left, ready to push off and tackle anything unfortunate enough to be both leaving the tunnels and hostile. Laughter petered off into comfortable silence, and then uncomfortable silence as the two realized that they had never really been alone together and didn’t have much in the way of things to talk about.

That silence dragged on without even the distant call of birds or gusts of wind to break it.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Regis and Drizzt practically tumbled into the clearing, panting and shaky on their feet after a daring attempt to outrun anything that might be around them. It was a relatively normal clearing, unmarred and still somewhat green despite all the devastation around it. Aside from a patch of fresh grass, however, nothing was there.

“Regis,” Drizzt’s voice took on a mostly involuntary tone of anger.

The halfling held up his hands, “She’ll open the portal, it might take a little bit, but it’ll open, I swear.”

The drow wasn’t convinced, but tried to distract himself by listening and watching for pursuers approaching their little piece of safety. Another branch fell a short distance away.

And then everything grew very still, very serene, nearly silent. A sinking feeling came after, almost as if both rogue and ranger were suspended in very slow freefall.

“I don’t like this.” Drizzt wasn’t sure which one of them said it, but it was a shared sentiment.

It dragged on and on for what could have been whole lifetimes.

Then, just as suddenly as the silence came, chaos descended upon them. Something large and heavy plowed into Drizzt’s back and sent him rolling sidelong into the grass. Branches and several whole trees came down around them kicking up whole clouds of grey speckled with red and orange. The noise was prolonged rumble of thunder right on top of them.

When managed to scramble to his feet, the first thing Drizzt saw was Regis several long strides away attempting to pick himself up off the ground. The second was a dark, booted foot stomping on his wrist.

It was wraithlike; dark and nearly featureless in appearance, the shadows that would have been cast by a skull were lit with a dingy grey. Its eyes were bright, almond shaped points of purple light. Black wisps of shadow danced about its head, a mockery of long, untethered hair and sharply pointed ears. Its body was strangely proportioned, bulging at the shoulders and along the chest; it appeared male, possibly elven. A sword rested, a clear danger, in each hand.

The wraith pointed a sword at Drizzt’s throat and smiled, eerie grey glow spilling out between its teeth.

The ranger froze unable to pull away and without anything to block the blow he knew was coming. Perhaps this terrible thing would kill him and that would be the end of things.

A small form came up behind the wraith and stabbed it in the side with a dagger. Regis lost his knife to the mist but had enough time to dance away to a safer distance. Drizzt followed his lead and darted back in the opposite direction, scraping the edge of the wood.

Without any better options, Drizzt picked up the nearest things that could be feasibly used as weapons: a pair of unscathed branches.

The wraith rounded on him once it noticed the ranger was armed. It took a few steps forward before rushing in at full speed.

Tired and aching Drizzt wasn’t at his full capacity. He dodged out of the way as best he could and avoided actively blocking the wraith’s blades whenever possible. They were deathly sharp, cutting through his makeshift weapons like they were nothing. The drow desperately attempted to use what little of the environment he could to his advantage, using trees for cover and just skirting the edge of the clearing. It didn’t seem to mind, almost as though it was biding time for other, larger creatures to come and haul him away.

When he saw an opportunity he took it; he knocked branches to send embers down on the creature, landed a few solid hits only to find that the wraith was all but immune to anything Drizzt could throw at it. Drizzt kicked a still-flaming branch from the ground, forsaking one weapon for it. The wraith balked at the open flame, but not as much as Drizzt wanted.

In fact, its form of balking was the exact opposite of what Drizzt wanted.

The bulges at its shoulders and chest moved, sliding down with sound metal scraping a scabbard. Suddenly the wraith had four arms and just as many long, curved blades.

“Oh dear.”

He should have gotten weapons.

It lunged at him and Drizzt tossed the flaming branch and bolted for the clearing, hoping to be able to outrun the thing. Turned out it was just as quick-footed as he was.

Regis attempted to help him, trying to snatch up the creature’s attention with thrown stones and coals, but it was so intensely focused on Drizzt that all the halfling managed to do was burn his fingers for nothing.

“It really wants you dead now,” Regis shouted to Drizzt.

The ranger was as far removed from amusement as was physically possible, “Portal would be really useful right now.”

Regis just looked at him helplessly.

The wraith seemed to have a harder time picking its way across roots and over debris in the woods, so Drizzt kept him there as long as he could, frequently checking back with Regis only to become a little more hopeless in the effort. He was nearing exhaustion on his last pass and part of him could hear Regis shouting, but it sounded muffled, distant.

The ground came up to swallow him, but he was caught, just in time by the halfling, “Come on, Drizzt, don’t give up on me now.”

A bright white light blinded him for a moment. He could feel Regis pushing him toward it. Over his shoulder, Drizzt could see the wraith clutching a smoking wound in its side and stumbling to catch up.

“Drizzt-“

At that one word. That single word, all of Drizzt Do’Urden’s senses snapped to attention. His eyes pulled forward to the doorway made of light and crackling energy, the dull pounding in his ears was silenced, the soreness in his muscles was lifted. He felt renewed, freshly healed and ready to take on whatever lie on the other side. A hand reached out to his and he took it without hesitation.

Once through, he heard Regis shouting for them.

The wraith had caught him, long blades forming a cage around the halfling. At first Regis called for help, but stopped after making pained grunt and inching precariously close to the scimitars.

Instinctively, Drizzt tried to go back, but he was caught as well.

“No. I’ll come back for him, you have to leave.”

Regis’s eyes darted between Drizzt and the ranger’s captor. He nodded once, understanding, and turned away contemplating his options.

“I can’t just leave him here,” the drow argued, “he’s my friend, I’m not going to let him die-“

“He isn’t going to die, Drizzt, I assure you. But this is not your fight. Your fight is elsewhere. Now come on. Regis can fend for himself.” A tug.

As if on cue Regis pulled his knife from the creature’s side and stabbed at its face; the two struggled, blades sheering the halfling’s clothes and drawing no small amount of blood, but, eventually and with great effort, the rogue managed to get away and dart back off into the burning forest. The wraith didn’t bother pursuing, instead honing in on the portal and rushing toward it.

That was all Drizzt saw before the image was replaced with one of the forest in Icewind Dale. The one he and his new allies had slept in for nearly two decades.

_Iruladoon._


	24. Difficult Choices

Rustling of wind through leaves, the light twinkling of stars, cold water lapping at his ankles rippling in response to his sudden presence, but otherwise very still. The air was cooled by a pleasant breeze that kept it from being oppressively still. It was a jarring transition, from choking heat and smoke to cool, clean air.

But Drizzt didn’t notice any of that at first glance. His eyes were too focused on the woman in front of him. Her auburn hair, slightly frizzed by the cold catching the breeze, shoulders high, tense, almost surprised, her brow furrowed, eyes low. But it was her, the woman that plagued his dreams for so long, that had shared his bed for over a decade, the focus of his reverence and affection. Just the sight of her left him breathless. “Catti-Brie.”

“You weren’t supposed to see me,” she said, a slight tremble in her voice, releasing his arm and taking a step back.

What was that supposed to mean?

“What?” he almost laughed, confused. Why wouldn’t he see her? Her magic saved him, they were bound to encounter each other unless…

Unless she avoided him on purpose.

“I-I don’t understand,” he stammered and tried to take a step closer to her only to see her back up another step.

She shook her head, full lips drawing into a thin line for a moment before she said, “Drizzt, you need to leave.” The woman gestured with every word, “Now. My magic cannot sustain you much longer.”

“ _Leave?_ ” The idea seemed so preposterous to him, “Why would I-“ The ranger turned around only to see the portal he came through was closed, “Wait, Regis was still in there. We need to go get him.” He turned back to Catti-Brie, “He could be killed.”

“Da and I will take care of Regis,” she replied, trying to calm the drow but the desperate edge to her voice made the task difficult, “You need to go back to the world of the living.”

Anger started to take hold. After all this time, he thought she would at least _seem_ happy to see him. But instead, she was shoving him out. “I don’t- _No._ Let me help you here.”

“Drizzt, no,” The firmness of her voice had faded, there was a sadness that replaced it; something empty, reluctant in its own right, almost powerless.

Her words settled around him, a weight in the air. “Cat…” he tried to argue, but found no other words coming to him. She wanted him gone so badly.

But _why?_

As if sensing the question, Catti-Brie took a step forward and explained, “You are more help to me out there than you could ever be here at my side.” She looked quickly over her shoulder before adding, hurriedly, “And your new friends; they still need you.”

“They’ll be fine. They can get on perfectly fine without me,” he said without missing a beat. For a moment he wondered why he was saying all this. Was it because he actually thought they’d be fine? Or because he didn’t want to admit that Catti-Brie was right.

That he had new friends. That they might need him as much as he wanted to stay here. That-

“What about Artemis?” Catti-Brie said it so suddenly Drizzt had hardly any time to prepare for the blow. Such simple, sweet words cloaked in a layer of sadness and worry; it was like a dagger to his side.

He hadn’t even thought about Artemis. The assassin had, according to Regis, played some part in his rescue, in bringing about this reunion. He had stayed with him through all of the bizarre and nerve-wracking swings in stability Drizzt had gone through in recent weeks. Drizzt wondered what Artemis might deserve in return; some peace, perhaps, a lighter burden. Things he could gain without the ranger at his side.

It would seem so stupid when Drizzt thought back on it later.

“He’ll be fine,” the elf said, “I even doubt he’ll miss me much once he can finally return home.”

The woman’s pretty features contorted into an expression of scandalized confusion. It did not suit her. “Can ye hear yerself?” she practically snarled at him, dwarvish accent sneaking its way into her voice. She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it from her face and exaggerating her look of angry bewilderment.

Anger bubbled up in him as well; irrational, pained, and childish. Drizzt tried to fight it, but in the face of having to say goodbye to his wife forever a second time, it was a losing battle. He snapped at her, “Why do you want to turn me away so badly?” He sighed, “Cat, I've have wanted nothing more for decades than to see you again and you” he stammered a bit searching for the right words to express himself; a task that seemed harder than it should have been, “you look like you can't stand the sight of me.”

For a moment Catti-Brie turned away, eyes closed, mouth curled in a grimace. The ranger imagined he might have gotten a similar reaction if he had just stabbed himself in the heart right in front of her. “That is not true.” When she looked back to him, she shook her head, “I’ve missed you terribly.”

“Then let me stay,” he pleaded.

She was getting frustrated with him now. “Drizzt, love of my life,” she paused for a few heartbeats to let the words sink in, “please do not fight me on this.” She held out her hands, pale, calloused palms turned skyward, “We don’t have the time. I _need_ you to go back. There are others that need you there too.”

The drow scoffed at her, a hysterical, weightless feeling settling on the edges of his mind and blurring his judgment. “What people?” he barked “The dead ones? The ones that want me dead? Yes there are so very many of them. I should give them what they want and let _them_ send me back here. Will you let me stay then?”

Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared.

That was the only warning he got before she slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Afafrenfere collapsed heavily onto a bedroll as soon as their work was finished. _Just a few moments of sleep_ he told himself, _and then I’ll go back to Effron on watch._ He must have accidentally spoken the words aloud without realizing because he heard Ambergris make a curious noise and ask him what he said. “Nothing,” he said quickly, “just that I was going to catch a few winks.”

“Pretty sure I heard ye say somethin’ about the warlock,” she said skeptically, leaning over the monk as he attempted to sleep.

To his credit, Afafrenfere made a valiant effort to ignore her. However, attempting to sleep with several dozen pounds of dwarf and cleric looming over and silently judging you is not the easiest of tasks, even for the more disciplined of men. “What?” he said, exasperated, as he cracked open his eyes.

“What’s goin’ on with ye and him?” she asked, bushy eyebrow arched high, “The two o’ ye have been spendin’ an awful lot o’ time together.”

“Well,” the human rubbed his burning eyes a bit before running his hand across his face, “if _someone_ wasn’t spending all her time shacking up with her boytoy I’d be around her more often than Effron.” When he looked to the cleric a mask of guilt was flashing across her face, “I don’t hold it against you, Ambergris. But it is the reason I’ve been around him more. I like company, you know that.”

That seemed to placate her, “An’ that night the two o’ ye got drunk together in Llast? Ye never gave me a straight answer.”

“We talked,” Afafrenfere said with a shrug, “we got toasted, I changed his bandages, and we talked. That’s all we do. Well, except when I make him do push-ups and try not to laugh at him when he fails because, I mean, he tries _so hard_ , Ambergris. It’s precious.”

She made a face at him the way a mother does when her child says he wants to grow up to be a dragon.

A face Afafrenfere knew well. “Oh, come on!” he said, defensive, “You look me in the eye and tell me that the sheer amount of _effort_ the boy puts in being accepted by the group isn’t endearing.”

The dwarf leaned back a little. She couldn’t argue the point. Effron put so much work into trying to fit in and make amends with everyone it was hard not to forgive him. He remembered their breakfast orders and what times they woke up so they wouldn’t have to wait for food in the mornings when the warlock didn’t sleep in, he showed up bright and early, sometimes earlier than Ambergris herself, on training days. He offered insight whenever it was needed, and despite the smarter-than-you attitude he sometimes took on when explaining things he knew well, he was always trying to be helpful.

“Fair ‘nough.” She sighed, “Ye know why I’m askin’ though, right?”

The monk sat up, smiling softly. After all those years with Parbid, the late nights spent drinking sorrows away and then filling up on bread when they got too drunk. How many times had she called him out, had they fought over Afafrenfere’s relationship and how it was a bad idea? And yet she stayed by him, even when things got worse as per her predictions; she tended to his wounds, the bruises, the broken fingers, and talked him down from emotional fits all without judgment or complaint. He knew that she didn’t want to relive that any more than he did. “I do,” he said softly, “and thank you. For everything. I _will_ be more careful this time, I promise. I will not make that mistake again.” A sigh, trying to stop from getting emotional. “Once was bad enough. I think I have this under control.” He took a deep breath, “I need to move on.”

She smiled at him, gap-toothed and shrouded in beard, eyes glittering in the firelight. She hugged him, and he returned it, “I know I’ve been puttin’ ye out there on yer own a lot. But if ye feel yer gettin’ in too deep I’ll drop everythin’ fer ye. Like always.”

“I know, my friend.”

They broke apart and she gave him a light, playful punch to the jaw, clicking her tongue as she did so, “Get some sleep. Ye been workin’ hard and I don’t want ye keelin’ over unexpectedly.”

“Yes’m.”

Afafrenfere fell back down against his pillow.  As he drifted off to sleep he could still feel Ambergris hovering around him, tending to little things, waiting for him to be completely out before lying down herself. A familiar occurrence that the human thought would make him feel uncomfortable at some point. But no. It just made him guarded; safe.

It was a wonderful feeling.

-0-0-0-0-0-

When he had initially been called to the temple, Tiago thought he would be given extra instructions on what to do with the Xorlarrin priestesses or an update on Jarlaxle’s scheduled tortures so he might be able to sit in on a session before he headed back to Gauntlgrym. Or, perhaps, a tongue lashing from Andrzel in a place where the weapons’ master could feel his undue superiority the strongest; under the Matron’s heel.

But not this.

Saves and other workers were still moving pieces of rubble or scrubbing the dingy red-brown off the once shining black marble floors on their hands and knees. Bodies lay stacked on a cart covered in a tarp that might have obscured the shapes but not the pungent smell of lingering dead that made the hairs on Tiago’s neck stand on end. He’d only been asleep for little over an hour, how in the Realms did all this manage to happen?

“Whoa-“ he breathed, taking in all the destruction. Glass and dust crunched beneath his boots. Statues lopsided and pulled from their perches stared back at him as his eyes swept the room a second time. Well, the ones that still had eyes, anyway. “What happened?”

That’s when he saw her; shoulders drawn up tight, pacing. Her hair frizzy and falling out of once delicate and intricate braids. Red eyes bright and wide, yet strangely unfocused. She was losing her grip, Tiago could tell even from this distance. Whatever way this conversation went, the young Baenre knew, it was not going to end in his favor.

He braced himself for the worst.

Quenthel rounded on him with such ferocious intensity at the sound of his voice, Tiago thought for a second that he was about to be accused of causing the devastation in the temple. He heard the Matron growl “Oblodra” through her teeth as she approached, straightening and trying to make herself look respectable. A task she failed at miserably, “You have a new assignment.”

_Oh no._

“I need you to stay in the city…”

_No, no, no._

“And bring Kimmuriel Oblodra to me by any means necessary.” She clenched her fist at her side, “Even dead if it comes to that.”

Tiago felt his teeth grinding together as he unconsciously tightened every muscle in his neck and jaw. No. He couldn’t stay in the city, he didn’t have Do’Urden yet. That was the whole reason he came back here in the first place. He wasn’t about to forsake that- He _had_ to best the ranger. To best him into submission. He needed this.

“What about Gauntlgrym?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, “I was supposed to go back as soon-“

“You’re questioning my orders?” the matron took a step closer; near enough that he could feel her breath on his skin. She tilted her head to one side when he looked away, trying to force him to maintain eye contact and mock him at the same time. “I don’t care what you were ‘supposed’ to do. I gave you an order.”

Tiago couldn’t answer, not immediately at least. He waited until she’d turned around and took a few steps away to air out his concerns and make an attempt to reason with her. “The Xorlarrins are planning a coup,” he reminded her. “They need to be stopped before they even have a chance to gain momentum.” She rounded on him again, wild-eyed and snarling, an expression Tiago was a bit too familiar with. He hurried to finish, “Send Andrzel. He’s the weapons’ master. He should be competent enough to orchestrate this manhunt.”

“Andrzel is hunting the Chosen,” Quenthel replied, making no effort to hide the rage in her voice, “I will not tolerate arguments any longer.”

The young drow held out his hands, resisting the urge to cross his arms as he would with an approaching enemy he did not want to fight, “I’m not trying to argue with you, Matron Mother. But you heard Jarlaxle as clearly as I did; Do’Urden’s probably on the surface by now. Sending the army out to hunt him, keeping me here, and letting the Xorlarrins gain power outside of the reach of your arm- it is the act of a fool.”

Tiago tried, in the moments that followed, to convince himself that the word had just slipped out unintentionally, but it wasn’t working. He had just called the Matron Mother Baenre a fool on a bad day. There was no way this conversation was not going to end in a beating.

 “Excuse me?”

The fighter steeled himself. Might as well go for broke then. “You’ve trained me to be a strategist. To do what is best for the _house_. I’m telling you that this plan leaves us vulnerable.” He took a deep breath and stepped back when she made a move toward him, “We need the city to see that we can’t be shaken. We need the army to stay here, particularly if the rumors about clerical magic are true.

“There is a group in the process of uprising _as we speak_ and you would let them carry on unhindered over a personal slight.” Another breath as he gained momentum, “I know their plan, I know complex well, I need to back and keep them in their place. To show the city that no one is out of our reach. They-“

“Shut your mouth,” she snarled, slapping him hard across the face, “And do as you’re told.”

“I vowed to Matron Triel that I would do what was best for House Baenre,” Tiago shot back, using the sting in his face to fuel his anger, “I cannot let the house fall because you aren’t in the right state of mind to lead.”

Quenthel was in his face screaming, “Triel should have left you at the bottom of the steps where your mother put you to die, you insolent cur!” She grabbed him by the collar, Tiago could feel the spray of spittle against his cheek and winced under the shrill tone of her words. He silently thanked the gods that the snake whips were inert in the absence of magic, “But no! You were of Yvonnel’s bloodline and had to be spared.” She shoved him backwards, disappointed when he didn’t stumble, “My brother would have jumped at this opportunity. Would have obeyed his matron. Not puffed out his chest like rebellious, smart-mouthed child.”

The few seconds it took Tiago to respond dragged on forever. In that weirdly extended time three things became apparent to him: The slaves had stopped working and were all staring at them, Quenthel had turned her back on him again, and it was time for him to make a decision. He could either let Quenthel have her way and hope that luck was on their side enough that the collapse didn’t come or he could get out of the way in time if it did, or make another attempt to force her to see reason.

Apparently his emotional side had opted for the latter, for when his thoughts caught up to him, he could hear himself shouting at her back, “I am not my grandfather.” When he saw her eyes again he added, in a calm voice, “I am _better_. Trained in a different era with his mistakes to learn from. And I am not fool enough to stand idly by and watch you destroy everything Matron Mother Yvonnel built.” It took everything in him to stay calm as Quenthel came at him again and not let his anger take over and attack her, “You sent me to Gauntgym more than just for weapons. You know what I’m capable of and where my talents lie; in strategy and command not mole-hunting and capture. I am not saying that what your are doing is purposeful, but a leader that does not listen to those that are trained specifically to advise them is a fool and deserves to fall from grace.”

Quenthel did not respond. Perhaps she couldn’t. She just stood, perfectly still, staring at him alongside all the slaves, her face totally blank. Something beyond rage and closer to madness just below the surface and bubbling up in her eyes.

She was beyond reason, Tiago realized, and he’d opened a door to her madness.

He’d have to save face for her now, with all the slaves watching if he wanted Quenthel to stay respected for the time being. She was too far gone to do it herself.

Tiago slipped his shield from his back. Then, stripped off his armor and padded shirt letting them fall with a loud noise to the floor. “Forgive me, Matron, I have spoken out of turn. I only worry for the house and your rule, I meant no disrespect.” Then, softly so only she could hear he added, “Just beat me now. Spare us both the time and trouble.” He turned quickly on his heel, bracing himself.

Quenthel did not hesitate to plant her sharply heeled boot into the small of his back and knock him to the floor. Tiago caught himself on the way down so his face didn’t break on the floor, but made no move to rise. He waited until she struck him again.

The slaves went back to work.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Effron couldn’t remember a time he’d felt the air so still, the night so very dark. Even his time in the Shadowfell was a candle compared to darkness this deep. The Sundering. The very thought of this being the beginning of an event that had so consumed his studies, had dominated his life and his learning for so much of his life, left him worrying about what could possibly come next.

The clerics were without their magic, their gods gone off beyond the reach of the people’s prayers. Were the mages next? The sorcerers? Perhaps even the warlocks like him, even though they received their gifts from different sources uncontrolled by deities. Draygo’s errant madness and apparent scrapes with death left Effron trembling with concern. Would a madness like that consume him as well? Would he be left without his magic?

Would he be useless to his friends? Magic was all he had, unlike Ambergris who could still knock the mortar out of things with that vicious mace of hers even without her god’s backing.

He let out a slightly shuddering breath. Looking to the darkness for answers, and got nothing but more questions. How were the cities coping with the darkness? No moon, no sun, no stars to see by, the humans must be blinded outside of towns or away from torches. Roads and cities would need to be lit perpetually, or patrolled by creatures with darkvision. Crops would die without sunshine, and who knew what changes in weather they might see. If they saw weather at all. Nocturnal creatures, or those opposed to the sun’s pure light would find themselves with free reign.

Oh, the undead that would roam the land, Effron mused. How many towns would fall? How many armies would rise?

Things were going to get very, very messy.

His musings were disrupted by the grumbling of the dwarf beside him, “Wonder how long it’ll last.”

Even though Effron heard everything that was said, he still stammered a quick, “I’m sorry, what?” in response.

Bushy eyebrows furrowed in a scowl more confused than angry. Effron shifted a little, feeling as if he’d done something he shouldn’t have. “Nothin’” the dwarf said after a moment. “Just tryin’ to break the silence is all.”

The warlock made and effort not to sigh. Of course , he remembered, most people were made uncomfortable by prolonged periods of silence. “Oh, um-“ he stammered. He was overcompensating now and he knew it, but he could not stop himself. He tried valiantly to drum up something he and the dwarf might be able to converse about without one being oblivious or frustrated and came up empty; left only to make noises and start words but not finish them. Eventually, he gave up, but avoided apologizing outright again, though he could not hide the remorseful edge to his voice, “I know I’m not much in the way of company.”

Effron closed his eyes and tried to keep himself in check and not turn tail. Interacting with people was always so difficult-

A strong hand on his arm brough him back to reality with a jolt. “Yer fine, kid” Athrogate said with what sounded like an attempt at comfort, “Don’t be so hard on yerself.”

It wasn’t as though the feeling was something he could help, or that dissipated in the face of comfort. Still, Effron offered up a half-hearted smile because, he believed, that was how people behaved. After a moment he realized that wasn’t the right choice. At least, if the dwarf’s continued scowl was any indication. Nervous, Effron shifted away. A sharp spark of pain shot up his neck; his hand had gone to what was left of his shoulder, and he must have jarred it. That was odd. He’d never made a habit of touching the scar before.

He heard Athrogate stifle a laugh when he jumped and his face grew warm.

“So, what’re ye wantin’ us to call ye now?” the dwarf asked with something that would have sounded like genuine curiosity had a slight chuckle not edged his voice.

Unsure what he was asking, the warlock turned a confused look to the warrior beside him, “Excuse me?”

“Well,” Athrogate scoffed pointing to Effron’s shoulder, “we can’t be callin’ ye ‘the twisted ‘ anymore. Yer really more ‘lopsided’ now than twisty.” He snorted a little at his own joke and Effron fought the urge to scowl at him. He knew the dwarf’s humor was as harmless as it was unfunny. Athrogate took a deep breath and steadied himself, “I just wanted to know if ye had some other title worth usin’ instead.”

Effron took a moment to process the question. He hadn’t given the idea too much thought before. In fact, he had almost forgotten that he’d even had a moniker in the first place after being called by just his name for months. “Um-“ he berated himself mentally for how stupid he was sounding in this particular conversation. “Just ‘Effron’ is fine, I suppose. Or, I guess you could tack on ‘Alegni’ if formal introductions are ever-“

“Bah!” The dwarf cut him off so loudly Effron jumped. They’d been speaking in such quiet voices, Athrogate’s normal volume was jarring for both of them. He lowered his voice and placed a hand on the warlock’s arm, “Nonsense.” He backed off a bit, as if he could feel the warlock recoiling from the touch. “That name’s misleadin’” he explained, “Family names should be passed down to children that act like their parents, or wanna be like ‘em, ye know? And I can’t name a time I’ve seen ye act that much of a bastard.”

“Entreri would beg to differ,” Effron mumbled under his breath.

“I’m not so sure,” the dwarf smiled wide, and gap-toothed when the warlock arched an eyebrow in confusion. “I’d like to think I know the man pretty well, and if he thought ye were a bastard he’d’ve told ye so in a very creative, very painful way.” Athrogate rubbed a spot on the back of his head with a wince, “Gods know he did it to Jarlaxle a number of times.”

“What did he do?” Effron’s curiosity got the better of him and the question just slipped out.

“Let’s just say Jarlaxle gets a little nervous around layer cakes and leave it at that.”

The warlock tried to imagine what that could mean and all of the options were hilarious.

The dwarf’s smile got a little wider. “Anyway,” he said, looking back down to the cavern entrance and then around the ledge they were sitting on, still keeping vigilant watch, “I was thinkin’ it’s about time ye got yerself a new title. One o’ yer very own.”

Effron felt his eyes rolling before he had a chance to stop them, just as Athrogate turned to face him again.

“Don’t be like that,” he shook the warlock by the arm, “show a little enthusiasm at least.”

His tone betrayed his skepticism, “Forgive me if I’m not jumping up to do extravagant quests for people that, despite all I do, still only look at me out of the corners of their eyes for a name I don’t particularly care about.”

Athrogate made a face, comically feigning emotional injury, but quickly sobered, looking Effron in the eye and asking, “We don’t treat ye that way, do we?”

Effron didn’t answer, not wanting to stumble over his words and look ungrateful. After a moment he shook his head, wondering where the dwarf was going with this.

He must have read something on Effron’s sharp features judging by the way he chuckled and said, “Settle down. I’m just sayin’” he paused, looking for words in the darkness, “Ye deserve better than what ye had before. And ye should be eager at the chance to prove people wrong an’ earn that better honorably.”

The warlock studied his companion closely, the dwarf’s features slightly warped and bestial under darkvision; briefly Effron wondered what kind of nightmarish vision he became in this darkness, but shook the thought away. “I don’t understand,” he finally confessed, “Why? I don’t mind being just ‘Effron’ what is moniker going to change?”

The reaction was interesting; a temporary loss of vigor, a softness, and then something akin to sadness creeping up around the corners of Athrogate’s eyes. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a neutral expression, but could not subvert the scrutiny of Effron’s gaze. “Because,” the dwarf began after a moment’s thought only to stop for a few moments and restart, “Because a title is like a badge o’ honor.” A strange tone edged his voice; fondness, like nostalgia but with a sorrowful tint, as a man speaks of happy memory tainted by more recent discoveries, “It tells people what yer made of or whether they should look to ye for strength or cower in fear.” A wistful hum and a sigh through the nose, “A title does a lot more than make a man seem pointlessly prideful.”

The whole speech gave Effron pause. He realized how deeply personal the conversation had become and wasn’t sure how to proceed. A moment passed and he wished he could go back in time and just tell himself to nod and smile through the conversation, not contribute to it. But Effron couldn’t stop himself, his curiosity, yet again, getting the best of him, “What were yours?” When Athrogate turned a confused glance to him, Effron foolishly decided to commit to the question, “A dwarf that’s been around as long as you have is bound to have a plethora of titles.”

A blank stare looked back at Effron for some time before the dwarf answered, “I don’t know about a ‘plethora’” he said; and Effron was almost certain he had mispronounced the word on purpose, “But yeah I had quite a few back in my day.” He paused, “But then I was cursed, and they were stripped from me.”

“What happened?”

Effron vowed to have a long talk with himself later about asking personal questions to people he only barely knew.

“It’s not a story worth tellin’” he answered, looking away. Effron swallowed any attempt at pressing and looked away as well, trying to find a way to distract himself.

He ended up finding the mother of all distractions and rose, quickly trying to find the best way to get himself down to the outcropping in front of the cavern without falling and hurting himself.

It wasn’t long before Athrogate saw it too, taking Effron by the belt before he could start making his way down.

“Let me go,” the warlock hissed.

“Get information,” the dwarf instructed, pulling on Effron’s belt and forcing the taller man to look at him, “don’t go pickin’ a fight. I don’t need to be hearin’ Ambergris complain about three injured men because ye decided to be stupid and get us both hurt or ambushed. Understand?”

When Effron nodded, Athrogate released him. As he headed down, he noticed the dwarf wasn’t moving to follow him.

The seats were too good to pass up.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The sudden, stinging pain in his face was much more jarring than it probably should have been for the drow. Despite the circumstance, Drizzt’s first thoughts after the blow had absolutely nothing to do with Catti-Brie or Iruladoon.

No, for those few seconds as the tingling in his face faded, Drizzt was back in Neverwinter. He was sitting on the floor of the abandoned temple in a cold sweat and trembling. A warm hand squeezed his own. He looked up and saw himself surrounded by his companions; a human at his side, a dwarf stern-faced and concerned not far from him, a tall shadow looming on the wall and a roguish type partially concealed in that shadow.

It took Drizzt a moment to realize that these weren’t the Companions of the Hall watching him with wide eyes or furrowed brows, mouths pulled in tight lines carefully choosing who would say what first. These were new faces, ones met on the end of his blade, rather than with a raised hand. Friends born in conflict rather than against it.

The image was gone in a blink.

He was back in Iruladoon, Catti-Brie was shouting at him, rough dwarven accent slipping intio her voice and betraying the intensity of her emotions more than a raised voice ever could. “Ye know exactly what people I’m talkin’ about.” She gestured angrily around her although there was no one else there, “The ones that smile an’ cheer when they recognize ye. The bards that sing yer praises. The people that gave ye the title o’ hero-“

More frustrated than moved by her words, Drizzt cut her off, “I never asked for that title!” The heartfelt look of conflict that took over the woman’s face as she slowed to silence made Drizzt’s heart ache. She had a point. A point he knew was valid; so many out there did not want to get word of his death. But that intense, encompassing love he’d felt for her, magnified by decades of grief drowned out all logic and reason in him, and left him feeling bitter and empty. He was always fighting things he could not change, and this was no different. Some of his anger faded at that realization and he sounded exhausted, even to himself, when he next spoke, “I just wanted to help people, to be in the sunlight after all those years I spent in the dark.” He laughed, more a solemn sound than one of joy, “And then, I finally think I have everything I could have ever wanted in life and it’s snatched away.” He was steadily losing momentum, “By time, by war… my own goddess, that I placed my faith in- who was supposed to _reward_ my good deeds. I” he took a deep, shaking breath, “I just wanted, for even a short while, to feel unburdened. To be happy. To be…”

“Selfish,” Catti-Brie offered when he trailed off and didn’t speak for some time.  Her tone was not accusatory, but cold and distant; there was still anger there, “Ye took on the title o’ hero, Drizzt,” briefly her lip curled in a snarl, “ye don’t get to be selfish.” She closed the gap between them once more.

For a moment Drizzt thought she might hit him again to keep him focused.

Instead, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “Why do ye think people like-“ she thought for a moment, “like Artemis or _Wulfgar_ ,” with her free hand she gestured out to the beautiful yet empty forest surrounding the lake as if to emphasize that particular absence, “why they don’t take on that title? Because they know what it means: selflessness and sacrifice. A life tarnished with accepted misery so that others might not suffer instead. Heroes –true heroes, like I know ye are, they give their lives, their very eternities,” a short pause, “so that those without the means to protect themselves might feel safe.”

“I didn’t-“ Her hand moved from his shoulder to his neck, her thumb gently brushing the tight line of his jaw. Drizzt felt his words catch on a lump in his throat nearly choking him.

“No one asks for this burden, Drizzt,” her voice soft, easy, “It is offered and accepted, but once. And then it lasts a lifetime.” She looked him in the eye, a sad smile on her face just barely wide enough to dimple her cheeks, “You are Drizzt Do’Urden, the Hero of the North, and there is an entire region’s worth of people waiting for you to come and help them through this dark time. Would you condemn them to wait forever?”

“Cat-“ his voice caught again and broke when he forced himself to speak anyway, “I don’t… I don’t know if I can give those people the help they need from me. I can barely hold _myself_ together, how could I possibly be of aid to others?”

That doubt, that insidious thought that had plagued the back of his mind since he’d pushed Jarlaxle to yell at him and question who he was; admitting to it left him feeling cold almost to shivering. There was so much he hadn’t been able to do, things he should have done, _would have_ done had his old companions been with him. He didn’t save Gauntlgrym after two attempts, he couldn’t save Artemis as the man dangled from a cliff because he’d left him alone in a horde. He couldn’t even protect himself from binds of Lolth’s influence. How in the Realms was he supposed to protect people from a force as intimidating and unknown as the Sundering?

Sensing his concern, the woman placed her free hand on his barely clothed shoulder and shook him gently to regain his attention, “Lolth has named you a Chosen in a time when Chosen are all the people have.” Her voice was stern and full to bursting with resolve; the way one speaks to her comrades on the eve of battle, “You must show Her that She was wrong to give you that much power. That you are heroic beyond even Her corruption.”

Drizzt opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to argue by coming up hopelessly short on words. “I’m sorry,” was all he could manage.

She sniffed loudly, her smile widening, and pulled him into a tight hug, “I have faith in you, my love. There was a reason we took you in and kept you.”

The ranger nearly collapsed into her embrace. Its warmth, its security; a temporary passage back to a happier time he didn’t want to ever see the end of. “Please,” he pleaded softly into the cottony curls of her hair, “Don’t- Don’t make me say good-bye again. Don’t leave me to do this alone.”

“You aren’t alone, Drizzt.” She pulled away, “And I doubt a man like you, with friends like yours, ever will be.”  Catti-Brie shook him again, more playful this time, “But you _must_ go back now. I can’t afford to keep you here any longer.”

He pulled her back in, pressing a desperate kiss to her lips as if that would somehow convince her to let him stay. While that was not the case, she didn’t push him away, instead she returned the kiss and pulled away with a smile, trying to bolster him as she had done so many times in the past. Everything about her was a perfect match to his memory. The very memory that had haunted him since her death.

When would he see her –would he even see her- again? What about the others? Would it be decades? Centuries? Lifetimes from now? The thought left a painful pit in his stomach. Being forced to say farewell the first time had been so very difficult.

The thought of a second was almost too much for him to bear.


	25. All That's Left

Strands of hair against his cheek, a warm pressure at his side, a head resting on his shoulder, and surrounding him the distant smell of pine, masked under something metallic and musty, but still present and trying to make itself known. He shifted slightly, feeling the body beside him shift with him, sleepy and too heavy to be moved but by force.

Artemis hated when Drizzt slept _on_ him rather than beside him. He was always so difficult to move and made it impossible for the assassin to change positions if he became uncomfortable. On more than one occasion, he’d had to wake the ranger and tell him to slide over to much grumpy mumbling, reluctance, and clinginess.

Drizzt had half the bed, sometimes more than half, to himself, why did he constantly insist on sleeping on _him_?

The human nudged his companion trying to encourage him to shift over on his own. The ranger didn’t budge, content to just be dead weight against Artemis’s arm. Again, the assassin tried to move him, but for some reason his own body refused to respond to his commands to shove the drow. He felt as though there were weights tied to his limbs, holding him in place.

Now, Artemis was trying to move for his own benefit; open his eyes, move his hands, shift on to his side, something. It was almost like he was turned to stone, but left aware this time. Nearly all of his energy went in to simply lifting his head from the soft cushion of the elf’s hair.

What happened? Why couldn’t he move without a substantial amount of effort? Why did it take him so long to remember?

Exhaustion?

Things started coming back to him then. The trek, the fights, the aggravation and insult, the injury-

_Oh gods._

Artemis felt his breath leave him in a weak sigh; the injury to his leg throbbing at the thought as if its name had been called. He bit back a pained noise as he became increasingly aware of the burn and the ache that left his whole leg feeling tight and dead all at the same time.

This was going to be a problem.

Wrenching his eyes open, he tried to inspect the injury, which turned out to be a much more difficult task than it should have been even with darkvision. Everything was blurry in a way that worried the assassin.

Jarlaxle had warned him that the enchantment that let him see in the Underdark required a lot more focus from him than it would for someone with an innate ability, but Artemis had never expected to find himself in a situation where it might fail.

If he couldn’t see, that would make wholly dependent on the drow beside him. He didn’t like that idea.

Curious, and starting to regain some feeling in his other limbs as his mind’s alertness spread to the rest of him, Artemis pushed the unconscious ranger enough so that he could move without knocking the other man over. Bracing his back against the wall and bending his good knee he tried to push himself to his feet. It took some doing, but he managed to shakily stand for a few minutes before his knee buckled and he slid back to the floor.

This was bad.

This was very bad.

He wondered briefly how long he’d been in the small cavern since Dahlia had left him behind. He’d obviously slept, for all the good it did, for a long while judging by the crick in his neck and the ache in his back from leaning against the wall in the same position for so long.

Another sigh as Artemis rested his head against the stones. They wouldn’t be able to stay much longer if he wanted to be mobile on own power. He reached over, shaking Drizzt, trying in vain to wake him. No response.

Frustrated, Artemis made an attempt to slap him across the face. The awkwardness of the angle and weakness in his arm rendered the blow little more than a harmless pat to the cheek. His hand lingered.

Drizzt’s skin was cold.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Dahlia!”

His voice echoed off the cliff face and continued eerily until it was nothing more than a dull hum in the distance. Dahlia felt each reverberation keenly, unable to ignore it. She hadn’t expected to hear that voice again, particularly not like this. It had lost its whispering quality, its meekness. There was power behind it now.

She turned, unable to stop herself as a bubble of anger welled up in her at the thought of the person bearing the voice that sounded around her like thunder. The scathing remark on her tongue died in her throat when she saw him and though she struggled to revive it and jab him, it would not come back.

Something had changed about him. Not just his clothing or the gear he now sported, but something beneath it. He seemed broader now, taller. Dahlia never thought the boy she’d encountered those few times could even look this-

This _proud_.

He stood a good distance away, out of the range of her weapon. He held his hand out in front of him, trying to show a lack of hostility and keep Dahlia calm. It wasn’t working. “What are you doing here?” he asked, in the same tone with which he’d called her name, only quieter.

“That does not concern you, Effron,” she snarled back.

“Oh, I think it does.” He straightened, standing a bit taller and pulling his hand back to rest at his side. “Just answer my questions, Dahlia. This doesn’t have to be a fight.”

“Yes it does,” Dahlia shifted her feet, squaring off with the warlock, “it always does.”

Effron sighed. “I just want to know where Drizzt and Artemis are.”

The elf wanted to fold her arms, get cocky, but knew better. Effron might not have been much of a threat on his own, but those allies Drizzt had given him were. She might not have been able to see them, but she knew they were there. “What makes you think I’d know that?” she asked, voice forced but even.

She couldn’t read him for a second and that surprised her, but eventually his expression settled on exasperation. “I’m not an idiot, Dahlia.”

“Could have fooled me.”

The warlock’s brow dipped into a scowl. “Where are they?”

Dahlia shrugged. “In the Underdark somewhere, I’d wager.”

“Don’t play games with me,” he growled. “I have neither the time nor the patience for them.” Effron took a step closer. A full stride, threatening.

Dahlia didn’t buy into the threat and held firm. “What is this really about, Effron?”

The warlock stopped, he seemed almost confused there for a few heartbeats. He shook it off quickly, but Dahlia still saw it. She smirked, resisting the urge to laugh. He might have looked more competent, but didn’t reflect it in practice.

“This isn’t about us, Dahlia. I just want to know where my friends are.”

“Really?” she laughed. Something about the sound of her own voice echoing off the stones worried her. It sounded like she was slipping, losing some of her control. Something she couldn’t afford to do. Not now, not with him. Despite the worry in her thoughts, Dahlia’s voice kept talking, “Then why are _you_ here? Why not one of the dwarves? The monk? Hell, the lot of you could have come down here to question me. At least then I would have been outnumbered. Where are they? Why is it just _you_ and _me_ standing here? Hmm?”

There was a small part of her that didn’t want to hear the answer.

_Because I want to be the one to kill you._

“Dahlia, stop.” He took another step, hand slipping into a pocket in his robe.

Her heart stopped for a moment. She tightened her grip on her staff. The silence grew thick as they sized each other up across the suddenly small space.

Dahlia spoke first. She sounded angrier than was probably wise in this situation, but she couldn’t stop the rage coming to a boil inside her. Something about that blue eye staring back at her, almost like it _judged_ her in a way the other didn’t; it lit a fire in her belly she couldn’t contain even if she’d wanted to. “No. You don’t get to just come down here and settle a score without a fight. Not with me.”

“I don’t want to fi-“ he huffed and switched tactics, “I know that this,” Effron nodded to the space between them, refusing to move his hand from his pocket to gesture, “Will never be settled. I cannot forgive you and you cannot understand.”

“What is there to understand?” She quipped back, trying to maintain control of the conversation, “You’re still bitter over what I did. I will say, and I will continue to say it until my dying breath,” she took a step closer, trying to be intimidating but her lack of height made that difficult, “I regret nothing about it. Though, if I could do it all over again, I would.”

There was a pause. She gave it as a courtesy so he could brace himself. She saw no change in his expression, stoic.

“And I would kill you properly. I’d watch the light leave your eyes and know that you would never come back to haunt me again.”

Again, Effron wore an expression she couldn’t read. He said nothing.

“There. We’re settled-“

“ _No_.” He snapped, his voice a low rumble, “We aren’t.” He bared his sharp teeth, lip curled in a snarl.

Something in Dahlia stopped working then. She had expected him to shut down, to just stop talking and let her get away just like what had happened on the boat. She had expected him to cave.

Not fight back.

“I asked you a question.” He said, “I _know_ you encountered them in those tunnels.” The warlock swung his elbow back to the cavern behind him, “ _why else would you even be here?_ I know that they are supposed to be meeting with us and they are definitely delayed. Now you _will_ tell me where they are or this will get messy.”

Dahlia said nothing. She wanted to. She wanted so badly to shoot a scathing retort back at him, but knot formed in her throat at the idea that now Effron, and Effron alone, was a very legitimate danger.

“Where are my friends, Dahlia? What happened to them? What did you do?”

“I don’t know.” She admitted before she could stop herself. Her voice weak to her own ears “They’re still in the Underdark, I guess. I lost track of them. Even if I didn’t; they’re moving they won’t be where I tell you they are.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He sounded so much like his father in that moment, Dahlia almost struck him. Almost. But no matter how much she might have wanted to, something kept her rooted in place.

“Because I may not want a fight with you today, but I swear,” he took another step, towering over her, “to any gods still present that if I find out you did lie to me here, that you did something, or _will do_ a _nything in the future_ to bring harm to my friends, I will you find you. I will rip out your soul and hand-deliver it to Herzgo Alegni _in Hell._ ”

She almost thought he was going to make good on his threat right then and there, without proof of her lying. That he would strike her down and drag her soul behind him. That he was powerful enough to do it. But he didn’t. He just stood, staring down at her, before slowly backing up.

“I’m not lying.” She said, once he was a safe distance away. As if somehow that would help her.

She cursed herself for the weakness that statement conveyed.

He didn’t respond to her, just disappeared the way he had come. She could see a silhouette on a nearby cliff, quickly joined by a shape that she recognized as Effron. Both shapes watched her as she stepped back and picked her way down the cliff. She kept going until she could no longer see their shapes.

Yet still she felt them there. Watching over her shoulder.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Tiago limped down the uneven stone steps, one hand braced against the wall to stop himself from slipping. About halfway down he stumbled anyway and had to come to a complete halt and press both of his hands to the wall to catch himself.

He stood like that for some time, breathing unsteadily and trying to regain his balance. A sharp pain, almost like several scorching pins on his skin shot across his back whenever he tried to move; both legs ached as if pulled from a long soak in frigid water. This was a bad sign.

He sighed, pressing his forehead to the wall and tried to silence the nagging voice in his thoughts that tried to remind him of the last time he’d felt pain like this. The amount of time he’d spent in bed. His mother’s laughter. He groaned, hoping the sound of his own voice would do better to drown it out.

No such luck.

Gingerly, Tiago continued to inch his way down the steps. A task made more difficult by the fact that he was in the dungeon. The stairs were wide enough for three people to walk abreast, there were no railings or grips, the stairs were slick and slanted downward to make it easier to trip up an unruly prisoner and have them fall, skidding, on the abrasive stone slab at the bottom.  It was a bad position for someone with compromised balance to be in. But he had to do this now; if he waited until he healed and regained feeling Quenthel might catch on to his plan.

Eventually, after what felt like an age, he reached the bottom. He pressed his back to the wall beside the stairs and slid to the floor. It was only going to be a short break, he told himself as another wave shot up his back, rivalling the burn in his skin for the rank of ‘most painful injury’, just a few moments.

But once he hit the floor, the drow had a hard time willing himself to get back up.

Maybe he could stay longer than a few moments. Quenthel had given him one hell of a beating; she knew his weak points better than anyone alive and was not afraid to focus on them. He could feel his pulse humming through his back. Tiago hoped it would heal quickly enough for him to set his plan into motion without a hitch.

Voices echoing down the halls pulled Tiago from his worries for a moment. He’d heard them on the stairs, but now one was shouting loud enough that the drow could make out actual words.

“If you had just listened to me the first time!”

“Enough!”

The voices died down again; a pair of hushed whispers, the rattling of a bars and irons, then footsteps growing steadily louder.

Hastily, more so than was safe for Tiago’s current condition, the warrior pushed himself to his feet and off from the wall. He stood, rigid and still, mindful that single move might betray his state; a ruse he’d had plenty of practice maintaining when he was young. That didn’t make standing straight any less difficult, just easier to hide the pain.

When Gromph turned the corner, Tiago nearly tipped over anyway. “Archmage? What are you doing here?”

“That is none of your business,” the mage looked him over curiously, as if he sensed there was something amiss. “What are _you_ doing down here?”

“Hiding,” he answered quickly, “from the Matron. I’ve angered her once today, I don’t need to do it again.”

Gromph squinted at him, skeptical, knowing something that only he would know. Tiago braced himself for a lashing; surely Gromph would call him out if he had any idea what the warrior had planned.

Right?

But no such thing happened. Gromph just looked at him, not saying a word, not breaking eye contact until he’d passed Tiago completely and started up the stairs. A heavy, almost heated, silence lingered in his wake.

Worry was the first emotion to return to Tiago. Worry that he wouldn’t pull this off, that Gromph would turn him over to Quenthel, that his miscalculation, his overabundance of faith in his house, his want to prove himself to the Matron, had in that one quiet moment, become his downfall. That feeling kept him still and barely breathing for a long, long time. He listened, he waited, he feared.

Nothing came. No heavy bootfalls, no screaming priestess, no clanging weapons, only silence.

For a moment he wondered how a dungeon could be so strangely quiet, but thought better than to question it and got back to the task at hand.

He was still hugging the wall when he reached Jarlaxle’s cell.

“I’m not telling you where Do’Urden and Entreri are so you can just go right back the way you came.”

“Most people say hello,” Tiago quipped back.

“I am not most people. Leave.” Jarlaxle stared right through him, leaning against the far wall, arms folded across his chest. He didn’t seem too bad off yet; he was still on his feet with all of his limbs and only had a split lip and bloodied eye to show for his trek down here as far as Tiago could see. “I will not say it again.”

“I’ve come to make you an offer,” Tiago took hold of the bars to Jarlaxle’s cell and used them to hold himself upright, nearly tripping over his own feet as he crossed the hall to get to them.

He saw the mercenary begin to arch an eyebrow but stop halfway and drop back into scowling, “You put me here, what makes you think I want anything you have to offer?”

“Anything beats being tortured here,” the warrior gave a charming smile with it.

Jarlaxle didn’t bite, both red eyes still staring daggers between the bars, “That you still believe that betrays both your youth and naivety.”

Tiago almost winced at the barb, “I can get you out of here.”

The mercenary let his eyebrow arch curiously this time, but did not ask questions. Tiago knew what he would ask if had though: _What would you gain from that?_

“You had a plan,” the warrior said, trying not to sound accusing, “I don’t want to know what it is yet, but I know you had one. A way to get out of the city and back to the surface once you got Do’Urden out of here.”

Jarlaxle rolled his eyes, “What’s your offer, mustache?”

Tiago blinked at him a few times, feeling a little stupid. This was nowhere near the mercenary leader he remembered; a man that was all fun and ridiculousness but still, miraculously managed to get work done. This man was somber, bordering on angry, and no nonsense. He wondered how many other sides Jarlaxle had that he was hiding.

In an attempt to break the tension, Tiago shot back, “Why does everyone hate my mustache?”

“Because it looks stupid.”

The younger drow made an incredulous face, “Says the man that wears feathers in his hat and no shirt.”

“I can pull that off because I’m gorgeous,” a smirk pulled at the corner of the mercenary’s mouth and he almost looked like himself again, “you, not so much. You look like you have an oversized maggot on your face.”

“Har.”

That seemed to lighten the mood enough to pull Jarlaxle from the wall, “So, what is your proposition, Baenre? What do you want from me in exchange for what I assume is my freedom? I will not give you Do’Urden, Entreri, or access to my men and our resources. What else could you possibly want?”

He decided to lay it all out, “I want to come with you.”

“Beg pardon?”

“If I get you out of here, and you go back to the surface, I want to go too,” Tiago clarified, “I want out of here.”

“It seemed to me that you wanted back in,” It was a game now to Jarlaxle, a prodding and poking at Tiago, establishing that while Tiago might have come with the offer, Jarlaxle still had the power. “What changed?”

“I overestimated my matron,” he said, voice quiet, “She has shown her colors and she is a fool. She will bring about the fall of this house and I will not linger to watch that happen.”

Jarlaxle leaned on the bars, his face inches from Tiago’s, “You have more information.”

“Accept my offer and I will tell you everything once we’re out of here,” the warrior replied, “I don’t anyone overhearing more than they have to.”

“You sound desperate.”

“I am.” Tiago admitted, “I wanted to come back and make good on debts I owe, but now I’m in a hole as deep as yours. We both need a way out, and I can give it to you.”

“I have questions.”

“Not he-“ the warrior started to say but Jarlaxle grabbed him by the ear and threatened to pull him through the bars. Or rip his ear off, whichever came first.

“You will answer this, or there is no deal and I get out of here on my own. You’ll be left to rot.” The mercenary snarled at him. “You want in, I can get you in, but I can also make your life hell.”

“You can’t-“

“You saw what I did to Artemis Entreri, to Kimmuriel Oblodra, and so many others, do not for one second think I can’t do it to you just because a few poles of iron stand between us right now.” Jarlaxle released him, the smile returning to his face as he took a step back.

Tiago rubbed his head, scowling.

“You know I can get out of here without your help,” he teased, “I don’t need to agree to anything.”

“What are you going to depend on?” Tiago shot back, “Your guild?”

The smile on Jarlaxle’s face faded back into the scowl he was sporting earlier.

“I know you were talking to Gromph earlier,” Tiago continued, “that you have some kind of plan, but so does Quenthel. Her men are spread thin and between the two Bregan D’aerthe leaders; one is in her dungeon and the other is the target of a manhunt. What do you think she’d going to do once you and Oblodra drop out of her sights? Just let your guild linger while the houses form armies against her? You leave for the surface, you’re going to need all the help you can get, because your men won’t be coming with you. Not as quickly as you’d need them to.”

The mercenary snarled at him.

“Take my offer,” Tiago persisted, “take my help. And maybe you’ll get your guild back a little faster.”

It took Jarlaxle a shockingly long time to answer.

-0-0-0-0-0-

After hours of agony, Draygo came around and stabilized. A large steel pin in his wrist tugged at his skin and seeped a light amber liquid as his body lurched up and to the side and leaving the warlock retching over the edge of the table. The contents of his stomach stayed in place for the time being, probably because there was hardly anything to expel in the first place. Blood dripped from his nose and a few other orifices in his head and littered the floor with tiny, jagged black circles.

It was starting to hurt a little less, make him less dizzy, and even less sick as prolonged exposure typically did. He touched his own skin, checked his pulse; cold and thready, dangerously close to death, but still maintaining the illusion of being alive. It was working.

Draygo nearly laughed. He hadn’t expected it to take so well.

He took another swig from the jar of smoky liquid and it went down easy. His breathing was deep and more regular now. But in his chest waves of pain in time with his heartbeat blurred his vision and left him feeling like he was trapped in a vice. Exposure was helping, but it wouldn’t heal his wounds completely.

Negative energy only did so much for living tissue.

The old warlock carefully let himself lie back down on the table, its magic a soothing cool rather than a chill now. He groaned softly against a steady vibration in his neck and an ache just behind his eyes. Shaking hands might have had a hard time getting the hollow needle into his wrist, but he could feel it doing its task.

Briefly he remembered how happy Effron had been the first time his little contraption had worked. “We can rid them of disease and infection faster and without wasting magic,” he had explained in the face of skepticism as to the weird little thing’s usefulness, “not have to worry about them being tainted when raised if we flush them out with this.” The apprentice’s demonstration had taken two full days and most of a third, and the ghoul it created had been slightly weaker than one made from a healthy body, but it had been stable and longer-lasting than most; more a golem than a reanimated corpse. Draygo had almost been impressed.

Now, the warlock was just glad he’d remembered how to use the damn thing.

He would have to start the next steps soon if he hoped to get off of this table and actually be able to act on his own in the future.

Barely there, Draygo reached for his work gloves. He checked the seams, the enchantment, turning them inside out before replacing them on the table. The box and all his implements were in place. It was now or never.

He set to casting. It was a bit more difficult with a steel rod the length of his finger projecting from his wrist, but he managed to get the spell off. The world grew distant, first in sound then in color and shape, vertigo set in, a weightlessness followed.

When he finally reoriented he was looking down at himself through the gauzy mist of the ethereal. He looked terrible; pale and sunken, barely clinging to life, black veins protruding against his skin at his wrist, neck, and around the bandages still covering his chest injury. He took a completely unnecessary deep breath to steady his nerves and slipped his hands into the work gloves on the table. Touching several things to make sure they worked first, Draygo eventually picked up a large pair of sharp sheers from the same worktable.

The bandages were easy enough to cut through, but the injury the covered stopped him short.

Deep slices ran from his collarbone to the bottom of his ribcage, one was even long enough to extend down almost to his hip. But the worst one was a slightly off-center, deceptively small rectangular hole that went straight through, Draygo was certain. He pressed a gloved finger into the injury, feeling himself tense empathetically at the pain he was sure his physical form was experiencing even though he felt no pain in his ghostly state.

The warlock retracted his hand, looking at the tools beside him and wondering just how to go about this. No matter what he chose, it would have to be painful and quick. He could only maintain the spell for so long under these conditions, and if his body died while he was like this, Draygo would be stuck a useless ghost forever. And he wasn’t about to have that be the way things played out after all he’d done.

-0-0-0-0-0-

His heart pounded in his chest, trying to break free from the confines of its prison causing blood to rumble like thunder in his ears. At first he thought it was just his own paranoia playing tricks on him. He hadn’t been out for _that_ long, there was no way. So he pressed his hand the ranger’s other cheek, his forehead, his neck. Each time he got the same result.

Artemis wasn’t sure when he started whispering “no” under his breath but it took him a few moments to realize he couldn’t stop. He shook the ranger, desperate, pressed his hands to dark skin trying to warm it up, the way Drizzt did for him on those particularly cold mornings when spring was first starting out.

Catti-Brie’s magic had failed.

Even with his hands firmly planted on the ranger’s skin, he could still feel the trembling in his limbs. There was no way he could get out of this alone and now, if Drizzt was really dead, all of his cards would be on Jarlaxle.

He was going to die down here.

Artemis shook the thought from his head; maybe Dahlia was wrong. Maybe she’d been lying, trying to scare him and this was a totally normal side effect and Drizzt would wake up any minute now and ask him what in the hells he was doing.  Maybe he was just being paranoid for nothing.

He pulled the elf close, burying his face in the soft waves of white hair, holding on a bit too tightly. “Don’t you die on me,” he whispered into the crook of his neck. “Do not leave me here. Not after all I’ve gone through because of you and your stu-“ He clenched his teeth angrily, trying to bite back a wave of emotion he hadn’t seen coming.

“Do not abandon me.”

Struggling to keep his nerves in check, the human took several gasping breaths. He nearly coughed against that strange sour smell that filled the small cavern and the other weird smells that were trying to drown out the dirt and pine Artemis had become so very familiar with. Panic was welling up in him now as every option he had for escaping this wretched place was fleeing him alongside the ranger’s body heat. After several long moments of denial and trying to come up with plausible alternatives, Artemis realized that he would either be on his own or dependent on Jarlaxle to save him.

Which had worked out _so very well_ the last time.

He was doomed; to be eaten by the creatures of the Underdark, be captured by the drow, or to wither away as his wound slowly became infected and his body gave out from lack of supplies.

Artemis Entreri cursed himself in the moments that followed that realization for his sentimentality, his impatience, for choosing to flee, for choosing to stay with Do’Urden in the first place. He should have just gone home. He’d had so many opportunities to do so, why hadn’t he taken any of them? Why did he stay?

Because he was a fool.

A sigh through clenched teeth and Artemis leaned back, hitting his head against the stone behind him in an attempt to wrest his thoughts into submission and get his emotions under control. He could feel himself spiraling and it was getting harder to keep himself in check the more he thought, so he tried to stop thinking at all. He leaned against the ranger heavily, suddenly exhausted.

“You bastard,” he whispered, “you just had to- Why must you make me so miserable? Have I not repaid my debts? Is there some new crime I am not aware of?” He closed his eyes; somehow the darkness behind his own eyelids was less intimidating than that which surrounded him. “I treated you better than most. I did not think I deserved this. Not anymore.”

A soft sound, and he shook the elf again gently. “Stop tormenting me, please. Just wake up.” Knowing that none of this was working, Artemis stopped talking, stopped shaking him, stopped doing anything that wasn’t breathing and trying not to think.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that.

Something brushed his arm, light and barely there, and Artemis despite his attempts to remain calm, jumped back and away, thinking it was one of those giant drow spiders that always used to hiss whenever they saw him. But when he looked, nothing was there.

“Artemis?”

A sinking feeling in his already empty chest. He was imagining things.

But the body beside him shifted, turning, trying to get his bearings. “What-“

Artemis didn’t let him finish the question, pulling him into a tight hug, a hand pressed to the steadily warming back of the elf’s neck. He heard questions stammer in his ear about what had happened, what was going on. The drow sounded like himself, without odd tone he’d taken on back in Menzoberranzan, and Artemis just held on tighter. When the questions stopped Artemis tried to respond, but stumbled over words. Everything he’d felt in the last few moments: hopelessness, fear, heartache, were rapidly turning into something else.

Something he immediately identified as rage.

“I am so pissed at you,” He snarled through barred teeth as he took the elf by his hair and wrenched him away, grip so tight it threatened to rip out fistfuls of the silky strands. “You son of a bitch.”

The confusion on Drizzt’s face was almost hilarious, and probably would have been if Artemis could have seen it better. “Artem- What- Ow. Stop that!”

“Do you have _any_ idea of the hell you have put me through?” the assassin wanted to scream at him, push himself to his feet and tower over Drizzt, scolding him like Belrigger used to do when he got a bit too smart in the mouth, hand raised, eyes dark. Instead, he drew in close knowing the elf could feel his breath against his throat and snarled at him, not wanting to put them in any more danger than they already were by making a bunch of noise. “I swear by the gods, Do’Urden if I didn’t need you to get out of this place I would beat you to death with my bare hands.”

Finally, he let the elf go; more because the strength in his arms was lessening than any other reason. Artemis watched Drizzt stare at him, rubbing the sore spots on the back of his head and trying very obviously to understand just where the human’s anger was coming from. He looked around a bit, attempting to recognize the location and only became more confused for the effort.

“I don’t under-“ he put his hands down and tried to push himself up, out of the assassin’s lap, where he’d been dragged during the man’s tirade. The ranger stopped dead at the pained noise the human made and the bandages beneath his bare hand as he touched the man’s thigh. “What happened?” he breathed pulling his hand away and checking it, “Where are we?”

Artemis pushed Drizzt away and explained the basics as the drow forced himself to his feet and tested his balance; the failure at Gauntlgrym, the splitting of the party, that they were somewhere outside of Menzoberranzan and needed to make haste to the surface. When he finished, Drizzt was standing in the entrance way, looking like he was going to ask more questions. Artemis raised a hand to stifle them, “We can have a long, heartfelt discussion about the horribly offensive things you’ve been doing later. Right now, we need to get out of here before the Baenres catch up with us.”

Fear flashed across Drizzt’s face for a moment. “ _Baenres_?”

“I can explain later.” The human made an attempt to push himself up, but stopped halfway through and slid back down, struck with an idea. Drizzt watched, not bothering to question the man as he pulled his leather brigandine from his person and threw it at the elf.

The ranger fumbled with it, surprised, “Artemis, I can’t-“

“We’re about the same size, it should fit you.” He sighed, making another attempt at standing. It seemed easier for him this time without the added weight, even though he wobbled a little. “I can barely walk on this injury. So, you’ll be doing the fighting for both of us. You need to be protected.” Artemis stumbled against the wall, testing how much weight his injured leg could bear before it buckled; hardly any, it turned out.

Quickly, Drizzt fastened the chest piece and freed up his hands so he might help Artemis progress to the entrance. The leather was heavier and stiffer than his usual armor, and the other dark metal pieces he seemed to have acquired didn’t make moving any easier.

A snap of fingers to get the drow’s attention and Artemis pointed out what all they still had; a little less than half a skin of water, a few extra bandages, and four swords between them. Drizzt collected the items hastily, and a bit more clumsily than he probably should have been before rejoining Artemis at the entrance to their little hiding spot.

“Are you familiar with this place?” Artemis asked, his breath already short arm draped around the elf that held him steady.

An unreadable, blank expression masked Drizzt’s face for a long time before he answered, “My father died here.”

“You still know the way out?” Artemis knew he probably should have said something a little less insensitive but the pain in his leg and the possibility of escaping this wretched place drove out any other thoughts that could have occupied his attention.

“I do.”

They started out, through the aerie and into the wilds.


	26. Flirting With Disaster

An emptiness, occupied only by a warm, stifling air. A tremor rocked his core and rippled out to his fingertips. Distant sounds, echoing and muddled, far-off memories of combat and conversation drifting over the wall that separated conscious thought from unconscious. Pain in ripples of pinpricks just behind his eyes and brow, getting worse as he tried to block it out and focus through it, as if that pain took offense to his negligence and moved on to other places; his neck, his chest, his hand.

Something cold and metallic entered his thought-space. A vice around him, keeping him grounded in place, warming against his skin the longer it held him. Recognition of the feeling wasn’t as immediate as it should have been, most likely because the concern was not his own.

“Is something the matter, Nana?”

The elf started, snapping her full attention to him, the binding feeling of her worry retreating back to her side of the alcove they occupied. She knew better than to lie, but she hesitated, obviously desiring to avoid the truth.

“Nothing important,” she answered, “Master.”

He lifted his head to face her, hands still tinkering with the cracked gem housed in brass on her collar. Its magic was still active and maintained its usual muted power, but seemed to stop functioning altogether at random intervals and had to be adjusted to get it working again. He wondered absently if it might tip to the other extreme and overload if put to actual use.

Nana had a much more difficult time hiding her emotions or, at least, keeping them to herself without it. This wasn’t the first time Razlaould had posed this same question since he’d taken the thing from her to examine it. Nor was it the first time she’d delivered that same answer. Eventually, he knew, he’d have to start scolding her for it. Not now though. He’d placed a heavy weight on her of course her emotions would be difficult to control--

_Humanity is a disease._

Razlaould closed his eyes and shook the memory from his mind. The last thing he needed was to hear that voice in this situation; that gravelly grating sound that worsened the pounding in his head.

“Master?” Nana’s concern returned to him, more open and genuinely shared. She cocked her head at him, squinting to get a better look without having to get closer. Her voice was soft, gentle. The same voice she used when addressing on of the younger slaves back in Oryndoll. He didn’t hear it from her often, she tried to stay detached and speak clearly around him, but for some reason she had elected not to this time.

On another day, Razlaould would have seen it as condescending and punished her for it. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” She lacked her usual hesitance in asking him a direct question. He wondered why.

“It is not your job to fret over me, girl.”

Nana didn’t shrink away at his tone, “Someone has to or you’ll get us both killed.” The elf’s thoughts halted abruptly; she hadn’t meant to say that aloud. She backpedaled a little, bracing herself for a punishing blow.

It never came.

Instead, his curiosity getting the better of him, Razlaould asked her what she meant by the statement, why she thought it was appropriate to speak so harshly and out of turn. He watched as her thoughts scattered, pulling at memories and forming arguments until they finally condensed and arranged themselves for presentation.

 “You’re not yourself,” her voice shook, but she kept her gaze steady. “Something happened back there, made you reckless. Made you like _him_.”

_You would do best to take her memories now._ That rasp whispered as if knowing that the girl had referred to it. The memory was clear now; the Elder Enforcer standing at his door, backhandedly accusing him of theft and carelessness, and reminding him that if Nana ever became unruly he would be more than happy to remove her. She had been in line to be his meal after all, before Razlaould had so rudely purchased her.

It was immediately followed by Nana’s account of her last days in the arena. The things she said of the Enforcer and his presence; that something was off about him, not missing, but broken. _Unhinged_ had been the word she ultimately settled on.

Razlaould wasn’t sure how he felt about the comparison and demanded she elaborate.

“Back at the primordial,” She brought the memory to the forefront of her thoughts so he could watch the events unfold through her eyes, “Once you fell into the fray, you lost touch. If I hadn’t been there, you would have been killed in the blast.”

Even though she was on the other side of the alcove, Razlaould could still feel her hands on his face. His tentacles taking course around the space they would have occupied.

“And then afterward-“ _The threats he’d made to her in the tunnels to force her hand and bring her down here, against a force neither of them had any business facing for people they didn’t even know._

“And the elf _.” His orders to Nana concerning their visitor and how dangerously close she’d gotten to tainting their safe space._

“This is not you,” she said closing her argument. “Something about combat has capsized you. Made you lose touch with your control and it concerns me.” She took a deep breath, closing her eyes and clearing her thoughts of the emotion that was starting to edge its way in there, “You do not wish to die down here anymore than I do. I know this. And it does not have to be that way. We _can_ survive.”

He could not fight the feeling of insult bubbling in his chest, “Is this because you believe it or because you do not wish to die?”

She rocked back, briefly startled, and after a moment collected herself. “I will not lie to you, Master, I do not wish to die. Not like this.” Quickly, she interrupted any response with a, “but, I know that is also the case for you. I remember the fear in that day-“

_Gaunt, yellow faces. A shouted, guttural language. Brilliant silver swords catching the firelight. Screaming and blood…so much of both._

“You did not wish to die then,” _A young elf girl in a tattered bloodstained dress rising from the ground, taking up his fallen sword, swinging the blade into the crowd around them until its momentum ripped it from her grip, and offering her hand and a promise of safety._ “Why should I believe you have suddenly acquired a death wish?”

Razlaould had no answer. She knew him too well, he realized. He’d let her into too much of his life, let her see and remember too much. Frustrated once more, he retaliated. “You suggest we become fugitives.” Razlaould tried to make the idea sound as stupid as he thought it was, “Without allies, supplies, or a plan. Just run from the powers that be until they capture us; because running worked out so well for you the first time.”

That seemed to ruffle her feathers, but only momentarily, “The only reason running didn’t work out for me then is because I saved you and you betrayed me.”

“I had never promised to help you.“

“And yet you did later,” Nana quipped, stalemating the argument again.

They sat, quietly looking at each other for some time. When did this happen? When did her arguments suddenly start making sense? When did they hold weight enough for him to listen? How did she end up with this much control?

Why hadn’t he seen this happening?

Perhaps the Enforcer had been right and Razlaould had gambled and lost on the young elf.

He watched her closely, feeling the tentacles on his face start a thoughtful sidelong swing. She didn’t back down, or flinch away from him. She very rarely did in their private moments and only did so in public because it was customary. Her thoughts were open to him and he scoured them, looking for an ulterior motive something sinister, something ambitious. But nothing came. Every turn he made was met with the same things; a want to protect, a need to keep moving, and that damnable unwillingness to die that had saved both of them in the raid and her own life in the arena years ago. He felt that courage in his own thoughts, like a dark stain on a white sheet, spreading as far as it could.

_Lest she infect you with her sickness._ The Enforcer sang in the back of his mind.

Suddenly, Razalould found himself back in his own headspace. He filtered through his limited knowledge of the area, the briefing he and Tel’Kashir had received before coming here, information acquired from the Oblodra and the priestesses, where they were on the map and any nearby strongholds that they could lay low in. He knew going to his own people would be out of the question, they’d both be turned over immediately. The dark elves would be in turmoil and it was bad form to ally with a group one just betrayed. The surface wasn’t an option, the sunlight alone would kill him, though it could be used to provide suitable cover should their future pursuers catch up to them-

A strange tingling, airy and warm like firelight distracted him. Nana had sensed her victory in overturning his decision and the triumph brought her enough joy that it was spreading to him.

“Stop that,” he scowled at her, and she settled down.

After a short while, the illithid settled as well. He had an idea. Though he might have preferred an actual plan, there were simply too many unknowns to build one just yet, but if they could get through a short period of improvisation they’d be able to get out and have something to cover their trail.

He shared the idea with Nana and her face fell at first. But, eventually her courage returned; she had faith in him and his ideas when they made sense to her. They hadn’t let her down before, even if they had come dangerously close more than once.

Before they could hash out any more details, though, the sounds of combat began to echo through the tunnel.

“Showtime,” Razlaould prompted, holding Nana’s collar out to her so she might get some use out of it. “Remember, do not engage them. Just guide your targets here.

She nodded and rose from her seat, still spry despite the long day. Her gloved hand reached for the necklace, but when she tugged the illithid didn’t release it.

“You will see the sun again,” he promised, intending to add to her terribly small reservoir of hope.

Nana smiled at him, a bright thing, sad but humorous at the same time. A smile directed at the bad joke of a dying man. She joked right back, “Do not lie to me, Master. It’s unbecoming.” With that, she took the collar, replaced it on her neck, and leapt down into the tunnel.

The illithid watched her go, feeling her thoughts and memories pull away from his like gossamer ribbons unravelling until he was left with only the knowledge that she was alive and unhurt. This was not going to be easy, and they could still die. But it was better than the original plan. He laughed internally at the foolishness of it all; that this little lesser creature, all emotion and nearly no merit had managed to sway his thinking so totally with a few words and images. That she could instill in him not only her own will to live, but the ability to make peace with life as a fugitive far removed from the comfort of safety.

She would be the death of him, he knew.

And, yet again, the Enforcer’s voice, happy and taunting him came to mind: _and we have to put you down alongside her._

-0-0-0-0-0-

He braced an arm against the wall, pondering the branching tunnels. None of this territory was familiar to him. They must have taken another wrong turn somewhere. The tunnels, paths, and open spaces Drizzt had been familiar with had all been blocked off at some point by cave-ins or simply didn’t seem to be there anymore. If he could just get far enough southward-

Another dead end.

Drizzt sighed, leaning against the wall beside his wounded companion. Artemis, thankfully, didn’t comment on going in circles; probably because he didn’t know if he’d be able to navigate the place much better. They took a few moments to rest, though their supplies were limited and they wouldn’t be able to take many more.

“I don’t understand,” Drizzt said to himself, “I used to know this place so well. I spent ten years down here.” He shook his head as if that would somehow dislodge the memory of the complex layout. “Why can’t I remember?”

“It’s been a long time,” Artemis replied, trying to sound encouraging around pain and exhaustion. Drizzt felt a pang in his heart at the sound. “The place has probably changed a lot since you were last here. I can’t say I remember more.”

Drizzt wasn’t entirely satisfied with that answer. He _should_ remember.

After that Drizzt started noticing other things. He was less coordinated; he nearly tripped over Artemis’s feet twice as they walked, though he wasn’t sure if the assassin noticed. His darkvision didn’t seem to reach as far. He chalked it up to everything he’d been through; anyone would be off their game after an ordeal like that.

Yet it still bothered him.

The ranger tried to force himself to focus on other things. He strained his hearing, listening for footfalls or moving wildlife in attempt to gauge whether they were being pursued. Surprisingly, he heard nothing. Nothing at all. The tunnels were completely empty save for them.

That was alarming.

Surely there had to be something. Even when raiding parties passed through the tunnels the less timid creatures would still stand by and watch. Not to mention a wounded creature was prime hunting material, Artemis’s injury alone should have been drawing the more opportunistic hunters to them. But no, there was just silence.

“Do you hear anything?” Drizzt whispered to his companion after a short while of mulling the idea over.

Entreri shook his head, “You have better hearing, why are you asking me?”

The drow worried the inside of his lip. “Because I don’t hear _anything._ Soldiers, animals, nothing, this could be bad.”

Artemis’s dark brow furrowed in concentration as he listened. Eventually he tugged Drizzt’s shoulder to get the ranger to stop beside him. Both men stood in the dark tunnel straining in their search for sounds.

“That is strange,” the human commented after a moment, “It’s not your hearing at least.”

“Something must have come through here,” Drizzt reasoned, “Uprooted everything.”

“The Baenres?”

Drizzt screwed up his face, “Maybe. Whatever it is, it must still be around here somewhere. Probably looking for us.” He shifted, adjusting his shoulders to better carry the human’s weight. “If it is the Baenre’s they might be heading to the surface thinking they’re after us. We could probably follow them all the way there before we- er- I need to do anything about them.”

Artemis nodded and fell back into limping step with the elf holding him upright.

Drizzt really did hope that they would stumble across a group of scouts, with supplies and possibly a map, but something told him it couldn’t be that easy. Not if the Wilds were this quiet.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The cloak was more easily fitted through the bars than the uniform, but Jarlaxle would need both if he wanted to blend in. So, Tiago set to work on the lock before the mercenary could even question what he was doing. Baenre security was always a hassle for him, every worthwhile lock requiring two keys, one held by guards, the second by priestesses. For some reason, whenever Tiago needed to get into some locked door, whether it be on official, or in this case treasonous, business he always found himself without the second key.

And without it one was prone to setting off the magical traps and wards that sealed the doors. Tiago had learned that the hard way more than a few times, much to the amusement of Andrzel and the priestesses.

Not today.

Tiago would be the first to admit that he wasn’t good with picks on a normal day, a good day perhaps, but not one like this. He could open a simple lock without too much trouble, get a door open or poorly protected chest, but something of this magnitude took concentration and effort. Two things he had a frustrating lack of at the moment. Effort, for the pain in his back making his limbs weak as he crouched down. Concentration because Jarlaxle started talking at him.

“You,” he said in light, airy voice, arms through the bars supporting his weight, “are a _terrible_ rogue. Don’t be expecting an invitation to my guild anytime soon.”

Tiago rolled his eyes and tried to focus around the mercenary.

“How’s your back?”

The Baenre scowled, “Do you want me to get you out of here or blow us both to hell? I can do either.”

Jarlaxle raised his hands and backed away from the door. “Touchy,” he laughed, “real burglars know how to burgle around distraction.”

“Too bad I’m not a burglar then,” he quipped. Then, he was allowed the silence he needed to concentrate. Luckily for him the lock wasn’t overly intricate, just linked to powerful wards. The tumblers clicked into place and he slid in the second key. The door slid open on its track of its own accord.

“Freedom,” Jarlaxle laughed, taking the bundle of clothing when Tiago offered it to him.

“Not quite.”

Without explanation, Tiago quickly set the next phase of his plan into motion. He led the newly disguised Jarlaxle to the off duty guard who had so graciously donated his uniform. They kept him bound, knocked him unconscious, shaved his head, and did enough damage to his face that he could pass for a thoroughly roughed up Jarlaxle. They tossed the poor sap into the mercenaries’ cell after untying him.

The mechanical portion of the lock was easy enough for the mercenary to sabotage, even with Tiago’s primitive pick set. “You pick locks with these? I wouldn’t use these to clean my teeth! No wonder that took forever.”

Tiago shushed him and led him upstairs, stopping to pick up a parcel wrapped in dark fabric and tied off with yarn left at the foot of the stairs as they passed.

With the hood pulled low, Jarlaxle would be able to pass for a soldier, so long as no one of importance inspected Tiago’s troops when he took them through the gate on Quenthel’s manhunt. _She wants Kimmuriel on a spike. Not dead, just impaled._ He signed to Jarlaxle as they walked to join the rest of Tiago’s assigned team _, I’m guessing he’s the one who trashed the temple._

Jarlaxle signed back, _That’s hilarious._

“Found him,” Tiago called to one of the gatekeepers. He rounded on Jarlaxle, “When I tell you to be somewhere, do it. We’ll just kill you on return next time.”

Jarlaxle saluted him with trembling hands, the picture of an obedient, cowed young soldier.

Well, at least the mercenary was cooperating.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He leaned heavily against Drizzt’s shoulder. The ranger wasn’t prepared to support his full weight and pitched downward, nearly tumbling to the ground if not for a few quick steps and a redistribution of his own weight. The two came to a halt for the first time since their last dead end. “Artemis?” Drizzt whispered, gently jostling the man to rouse him to alertness.

“I’m okay,” the assassin panted, “let’s keep going.” The words were hushed and slurred together, as if the man wasn’t quite in control of his own mouth and voice.

Drizzt adjusted the human leaning on him to get a hand free and touch his skin; his jaw trembled and his skin was warm to the touch but damp at the temples, moisture leeching into his hair. They would definitely have to stop again soon for rest so Artemis could fight the fever, lest it fell him before blood loss or exhaustion could.

They needed a safe place to lay low. The surface was still a long way off as far as Drizzt could tell, trying to make the whole journey with the assassin in this condition was next to impossible. He weighed his options. He could try and bring the human back to aerie where Jarlaxle left them and undo what little progress they had made. But that left in their pursuer’s line of fire. Animal dens and alcoves left them open for their usual inhabitants return and Drizzt knew from experience that that was rarely a winning battle down here. Open tunnel wasn’t a much better idea.

A tug pulled him back into the moment, the assassin trying to get him to move, “Can we not just stand here? It’s worse than being lost.”

A quick nod and Drizzt fell back into step with him, supporting his weight when the human had to shift to his injured leg, and using his own to ease the injured limb along like some strange three-legged creature. He felt Artemis tense beside him every time the limb moved. At he was still feeling some pain. That was a good sign.

The only sounds around them: the click of Drizzt’s strangely heavy boots, the sandy drag of Artemis’s injured leg, and the encompassing sound of the human’s labored breathing. Slowly, they trudged on.

In a particularly wide tunnel an uncounted number of turns later, Drizzt brought them to a stop. He guided his injured companion to the wall and helped him prop himself against it.

“What is it?” It took a concerted effort for the human to ask his question. “We shouldn’t be stopping. I can rest on the surface.”

The ranger shushed him quietly, “I think I heard something.”

Understanding, Artemis took a deep breath and held it, forcing himself into silence.

Drizzt closed his eyes, straining to hear the noise he had moments before. At first, there was nothing and he worried he had just imagined the sound. But no- there it was again; a soft metallic rattling, voices, footsteps, all echoing off the walls of the tunnels. Whatever it was, was close and seemed to be moving away at an angle, around the next turn perhaps? Or one farther up?

He opened his eyes and nodded encouragement for the assassin to breathe freely. “Whatever it is,” he whispered, “isn’t far. Not coming toward us, but could come back. Sounds like soldiers on patrol.”

“Drow scouts?”

Drizzt shook his head before Artemis even finished the question, “Too loud.” He almost smiled when Artemis made a face at him, obviously unable to hear anything of the sort.

Each took a few moments of silence to come up with a strategy to present.

“We could go around,” Drizzt suggested first, “avoid them completely.”

“That would put them at our backs. Not exactly better when we can’t put distance between us and them quickly,” Artemis argued, his speech improving as his focus was pulled into the strategy and away from his wounds, “You and Guen could go on ahead, take them out quickly and quietly.”

Drizzt wasn’t fond of that idea when it had crossed his mind before and certainly wasn’t now, “I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone and exposed.”

“If you don’t screw up, I won’t be for long.”

The ranger bit the inside of his cheek. “There’s a chance there’s a stealth scouting party somewhere else, waiting for us to split up. I don’t want to give them the opportunity.”

Artemis didn’t reply immediately. “Here. We find out what tunnel they’re in. Wait at the intersection, if they come back around soon, we’ll get the jump without having to separate. I won’t have to engage, but I’ll still be in close earshot for you.” A deep breath and his hand drifted to his wounded leg, “If they don’t we keep going without.”

Again, Drizzt wasn’t fond of the plan, but seeing the deep still-wet blotch of blood slowly spreading down the assassin’s leg reminded him of how little they had in the way of necessities. Even water was scarce. He understood why Artemis was pushing so hard to take out this group, but something in him felt very uneasy.

Drizzt knew he could take on a small group in a fight, he’d fought harder battles and came out uninjured, but something about the idea right now didn’t sit right with him.

Reluctant, he nodded. “Okay,” He took the assassin back against his side and they continued onward. “It doesn’t sound too far.”

The intersection was actually the next one they came across. A short way in, Artemis leaned against the wall, wounded leg thrown out straight putting all his weight on the wall and the other limb, the roughness of the naturally carved stone the only thing holding him upright. Drizzt listened again, the sounds were more distant, but didn’t seem to be moving.

He stepped out around the corner and dropped Guenhwyvar’s figurine. A few quick hand signals and the panther bounded off into the darkness without a sound.

A tense silence followed; Artemis fighting to control his breathing and Drizzt straining to listen.

A loud noise, shouting, heavy booted footfalls echoing louder and louder beneath the clamor of metal-on-metal. Drizzt’s eyes immediately went to Artemis. There were no sounds of combat, no roars from Guenhwyvar. “They know we’re here.”

“No point in running then,” Artemis replied.

The two men drew their blades. Drizzt took a few steps forward, putting himself between the approaching attackers and the turn. Artemis locked his wounded leg as best he could, praying it didn’t buckle beneath him. He left his sword sheathed, his hand too weak to draw it, much less hold it steady.

His life was in Do’Urden’s hands now.

Guenhwyvar came back first, bounding past the ranger and skidding to a stop, turning as she did. There was a small, smoking wound on her right back leg. Something had taken a swing at her while she ran. She growled through whatever pain she might have felt, eyes dark and ready.

The first of the panther’s pursuers ran up shortly after. They weren’t dark elves. They were some strange breed of creature Drizzt had never seen before; once elves perhaps, but not anymore. Wide nosed, sharp-toothed, and gaunt, they dripped with metal trinkets and clanged in armor that didn’t quite fit. As they approached they brandished shining swords. They shouted in a tongue Drizzt had never heard in his life, spit flying in ribbons from between their teeth like they were staring down a meal.

Perhaps they were.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Tiago’s small force of eleven soldiers, all flaunting the Baenre colors, all of hilariously low rank, mostly house guards and trainees, made it through the gate without a hitch. The gatekeepers paid them hardly any mind; in fact they seemed completely uninterested. Most likely because they were more worried about the chaos going on in the city to actually care about what Tiago said after “Matron Mother Quenthel has ordered.”

He led the troop to an empty section of street just outside the sphere of chaos that was the city proper. “Hold,” he called, raising his hand to stop the men. A sharp turn and he addressed them:

“I’m going to split you into teams of three. We’ll be able to cover more ground more quickly this way. We will also be less likely to be caught up in whatever is happening in the city. You are to look for the psionicist Kimmuriel Oblodra and note his whereabouts. I do not recommend attempting to apprehend him on your own, unless you are not overly fond of living. You will instead report your findings to me when we rendezvous back here at the end of the day. Then I shall seek him out with the lot of you.”

The men saluted him, though cast sideways glances at each other at the idea of Tiago getting all the glory for this mission.

Tiago didn’t care. “You three,” he pointed to the line of men on his right, “You’ll cover the markets. You” he shifted to the left, “the mantle.” Another shift, “You three will scan the houses around here, see if he stayed close. I hear Jarlaxle’s in the dungeon, they may be planning to release him. You two,” he pointed to the two in front, “you seem the most competent of this farce Andrzel saddled me with. You’re coming with me to the Clawrift. See if he went home. If not,” he tossed the fabric-wrapped parcel that had been tucked under his arm gently a few times, “we’ll leave a little present for him.”

He gave the men a second to separate into their groups and align with their assigned areas. “Dismissed.”

The force split off into the groups Tiago had assigned. Jarlaxle falling into step with him, the other soldier following obediently behind.

Once they arrived at the Clawrift, their group’s third was relieved of his life and any potential to inform the Matron Baenre of Tiago’s betrayal before he was ready for her to know about it. Jarlaxle led him into one the deepest chambers of the Bregan D’aerthe complex, shedding the cloak and armor of the borrowed uniform as he went. Tiago, knowing better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, kept his head down and followed silently.

Kimmuriel Oblodra and Valas Hune jumped at the sound of Jarlaxle’s voice when the two men swept into the main office. They had a map of House Baenre spread out across the desk. A surprisingly detailed and accurate map, Tiago noted.

“Miss me?”

Kimmuriel Oblodra looked one step away from punching the mercenary in the face. Valas’s face lit up at the sight.

“Glad you could save us the trouble,” the scout said, “especially since we need to get the hell out of here.”

Jarlaxle laughed, looking about the room then letting his gaze settle on the psionicist, “I hear you trashed a temple.”

“I hear you mouthed off to the Matron,” Kimmuriel countered, “How did you get out so quickly?”

“It helps to have someone on the inside owe you a favor,” he smiled over his shoulder at Tiago, who just arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. “Did you get my things from the-“

Valas kicked something on the other side of the desk and it rattled loudly. Jarlaxle immediately went to it. Some jangling and Tiago realized it was a chest holding the mercenary leader’s gear. “I am assuming, master Baenre,” Jarlaxle said as he sorted through a small reliquary of magic items he kept on his person, “that your plan has a part three? Convince me to lead you here, help me escape, and then lead us all out?”

Tiago nodded, “Yes. Quenthel has all the exits watched. If we leave that way she’ll see us so we’ll have to pass through the walls.”

“Gromph won’t help us,” Jarlaxle stated bluntly, shutting the chest with his foot, “I already tried.”

“I figured,” Tiago laughed, “But he is not the only person in this city that can get us topside magically. I also don’t have certain damning information on him. Information I may have already shared with Quenthel.”

The two dandies shared a knowing smile, between them the other mercenaries perked up.

“Zeerith Xorlarrin,” Jarlaxle cackled, “you might just be cut from our cloth after all.”

“Perhaps,” Tiago snorted, tossing the parcel he’d been carrying across the room to Jarlaxle, “Or perhaps there are other simple people of other cloths that see the game like you do, and know what the winning moves are.”

Curious, the mercenary arched an eyebrow and untied the yarn holding the parcel together. It fell open in a swish of fabric, contents unfolding form the forced sphere the fabric had kept it in. He smiled widely, “Be still my heart.”

He set the hat upon his head, and led the way out of the office, whistling for the other three to follow him.

-0-0-0-0-0-

There were too many for it to be just a scouting party. Drizzt counted seven on his first pass but he believed there were probably more. They stopped a short way up the tunnel, eyeing him, sniffing the air and talking amongst themselves, swords still drawn and leveled at the lone drow before them. The creatures began arguing, pointing and scowling at each other but always keeping a close eye on Drizzt.

The ranger took a cautious step backward and then another and another until he could see Artemis out of the corner of his eye without having to turn his head. The human was leveling a determined scowl at him. Drizzt responded with a confused look and slight shake of his head aimed at the creatures in front of him. He saw the assassin grow worried and tried to maintain a confident air, but it was rapidly fading.

They were inching closer. Drizzt counted eight this time.

The way the moved reminded the ranger of a pack of dogs, sniffing the air, looking out in all directions while a few kept their eyes on target. They were looking for something other than what they saw-

The injured man.

Blood. These creatures must have been able to smell it and see that _he_ wasn’t the one hurt. Now they were waiting for a tell and Drizzt wasn’t about to give it to them.

He took two long strides forward, turning to make himself a smaller target, and whistled for Guen to rush them. The creatures reacted immediately, changing tactics and scattering, some moving out of the way, others bearing down on the drow.

Drizzt called on his magic, hopefully to trap them under darkness and buy Artemis some time to get farther away.

Nothing happened.

The ranger tried to shake the fog of panic that settled in his head. Not wanting to concede ground, he was forced to raise his scimitars to meet the creatures swinging their blades wildly at him. The first few blows were easy enough to deflect, but holes in their armor were hard to find. Drizzt found himself forced to give ground anyway as they bore down on him. All he could do was adjust his angles and keep himself between them and the wounded assassin.

Guen seemed to be having an easier time. She latched onto the creatures and pulled off what she could with claws and brute strength, eventually making holes to bite and tear through. Howls of agony and anger erupted around the great cat and followed her wherever she went.

He counted five.

One creature gave him an opening, leaning in when their blades crossed trying to take a bite out of him. Drizzt switched his grip on his free weapon and brought it back around to cut a deep gash in the thing’s face. He took another swing when it backed off, burying the blade in its head and pulling it back out with ease.

He had to give the dark elves some credit; they crafted terribly efficient weapons.

Instead of falling to the ground to bleed, the creature began to smoke. Wafts of silver-yellow fog erupted from its wounds until the whole creature was consumed. When it cleared, the corpse was gone.

The kill, though quick cost Drizzt several seconds and one of the damnable things slipped past him, taking a straight shot to the assassin. Desperate, the drow tried for a globe of darkness a second time. It might have been able to smell the blood and chase Artemis if he retreated, but at least Drizzt would have time to get to it before it had the chance to attack.

Nothing happened.

Alarmed and confused, Drizzt tried for faerie fire as a last stitch-temporary distraction for the thing while he tried to break free and get to it. But again, no magic came forth. A shining silver sword cut the air dangerously close to his face.

The elf kicked out his foot, knocking the close creature backward into its comrades and ran to catch up with the creature closing in on the assassin. Magic anklets worked in his favor and he managed to lower his shoulder, barrel into the thing and pin it to the floor long enough to score enough clean hits to end up with a cloud of smoke at his feet.

He looked up and counted again; four, with Guen on the other side of the group. The ranger chanced a look back at Artemis only to see the pour man engaged anyway. But not with one of the things snarling in front of him. No this one was smaller, paler, and more simply dressed. An elf. A _surface_ elf, was holding the assassin’s arm and, by extension, his dagger harmlessly wide. She looked over his arm and locked eyes with the ranger, gold coins sparkling in the darkness.

“I’m here to help!” She said in heavily accented common.

Another creature got past Drizzt, when one pinned the distracted ranger to the wall. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl step out and after quickstep out of the way of a blade she knocked the thing back with a hard kick toward the ranger.

Drizzt didn’t hesitate with it or the one that had pinned him. Only a few more.

“Others are coming,” the girl said, trying to pull the assassin from the wall but only meeting resistance, “Let me help you, I know a safe place to hide until they pass. We have supplies,” she pressed a gloved hand to the man’s face checking his fever, “you can rest.”

“How many more?” Drizzt started to ask, but found he didn’t need to when Guenhwyvar came to his side, more of the creatures coming from either side of the tunnel’s entrance.

“About that many,” the girl replied.

“You led them to us?” the assassin accused.

“ _You_ led them to you,” they were all backing up as a group, the girl supporting Artemis despite his accusations.

Drizzt gave the whole situations a few seconds thought before he turned and said, “Get us there.”

“What?” Artemis tried to protest but the girl pulled him and used his pain and injury against him.

“I’ll take him first, then come back for you. Can you hold them off?” she was sizing the human up quickly.

“What?” Artemis said again, but Drizzt barely let him get the question out, interrupting with his own, “Take him to safety. How long do you need?”

They were getting closer.

“A few minutes without being followed. More if he doesn’t let me carry him.” She answered. That, despite the dire nature of the situation, got a pair of confused looks leveled her way. The girl was tiny, possibly one of the shortest elves Drizzt had come across in recent years, and she wasn’t exactly dressed like a fighter, more like a maid. She huffed in the face of their confusion and said, “I’ve carried corpses about his size down three flights of stairs every other week for years, I think I can handle this.”

Without missing a beat, she dropped low and lifted the assassin from his feet, throwing him across her shoulders.

They both blinked at her. “You have ten minutes,” Drizzt called.

“I’ll do it in five.” And she was off, admittedly not very fast, but with an efficient, purposed step that would take them from Drizzt’s sight quickly.

Only one managed to skirt past the ranger before the two disappeared. Too encumbered with group already pushing back, he sent Guen after it, only to have the cat stop and return before she’d actually gone anywhere. He looked to see Entreri dragging the poor thing along behind the pair of them by a dagger to its face. It didn’t stay that way for long, creature tumbling to the floor in a dissolving heap, dagger clanging down beside it. He heard the human curse loudly.

And then they were gone.

He counted twelve.

Yet again, Drizzt attempted a globe of darkness on the off chance that it might work now that he was focused totally on the fight before him. Alas, nothing happened. In fact, Drizzt found his focus wavering, his acuity diminished. The creatures closed in on him; every time one tried to get around him he strafed in front of it, Guenhwyvar filling the space he left behind.

Time seemed to slow down in that temporary stalemate. They’d rush him soon, overwhelm him, Drizzt knew. It was only a matter of time.

Over his shoulder he thought he sensed something. Someone standing behind him, the way Zaknafein used to when he practiced on his own, just waiting to see what happened next but offering neither advice nor criticism. The feeling made him bristle, the panther growled, low and threatening, and the creatures continued to stare as one, ravenous force.

He’d faced stronger creatures. More numerous ones, even. Pirates, orcs, even dragons. He’d lasted years in this unforgiving place as a child; he could last ten minutes now.

They rushed him. The ranger and his animal companion met them like a wall.

The whole time, between swinging blades, burning muscles and blinding walls of smoke, Drizzt found himself focusing abnormally. He saw eyes, blood, and teeth instead of his usual focal points of armor, weapons, and weak points. He felt fear blurring the edges of his focus, instead of bloodthirst honing it.

It was a distraction. It made him sloppy.

Luckily for him, Guenhwyvar was there to pick up the slack. Pouncing and tearing into creatures that got too close, or slipped past the ranger.

He gave up some ground to catch his breath, Entreri’s lost dagger clattering under his boot when he stopped. He bent, picked it up, and tucked it into a loop on his belt. When he straightened, a count of seven.

They were seeing him as a threat now. Hanging back, giving him space, studying him.

A sharp whistle sounded behind him.

Without hesitation, Drizzt signaled Guenhwyvar and together they turned and ran toward the sound. The panther dashed ahead of him, around the girl waiting for them, and then paused for them to catch up. Drizzt closed the gap quickly, the sound of pursuing creatures at his heels.

“Can we get some darkness?” The girl asked as they rounded a sharp corner. She was already out of breath and not having the easiest time keeping pace with him. After a valiant effort she eventually slowed to a manageable speed behind him, dangerously close to the creatures, but not quite in their grip.

“No,” Drizzt slowed his pace too, not wanting to leave her to be killed and never find out where she put Artemis. He couldn’t see any hiding spots nearby.

She didn’t seem too disturbed by the idea. “Lucky for us,” she huffed, reaching into a pouch on her belt, “my Master prepares for a little of everything.” She took a small sphere out and flashed it at the elf before throwing it over her shoulder. A gust of wind and black smoke propelled them forward several steps and when Drizzt looked again, a wall of black haze stood between them and their pursuers. A makeshift globe of darkness.

One creature, however, managed to not get caught in the haze and broke out in a mad sprint for the ranger, nearly dropping to all fours for stability and it tackled him to the ground. Sharp claws clanged against the metal covering his shoulders and were just more than dull blows against the enchanted leather covering his back.

An unfocused, nearly hysterical part of Drizzt reminded him to thank Artemis later.

A sharp kick dislodged the creature before it could find skin. The drow scrambled away and saw the girl sink a sharp, thin blade into the creature’s forehead; green sparks glowing around a charm at her neck. It snapped at her, teeth narrowly missing her arm and she fell away with a yelp, taking her weapon with her. Guenhwyvar was on it before the struggling creature had a chance to move.

“Keep going,” The girl staggered in her step, but helped Drizzt to his feet and they fled.

She stopped him sometime later, finger brought to her lips and eyebrows raised. They stepped into a side passage and she threw something farther down along the path they had been taking. Drizzt heard something shatter in the distance. Tugging him by his arm she led the ranger further down the side tunnel and eventually out of harm’s way.

They were doubling back, Drizzt realized when he heard the sounds of those terrible creatures at his back again, far away and getting farther.

“What were those?” He asked, dismissing the battle-worn panther with a wave of his hand and pocketing the figurine. “I’ve never seen them down here before.”

“Githyanki,” she said, curt, as if the subject were one not to be discussed and now she was tasked with explaining why yet again, “Nasty creatures. Mad men. They’ll eat anything and they’re all over the place right now.” Drizzt started to ask how, but she had stopped.

The ranger looked about, expecting to see something, but all he saw were signs of the beginnings of their retreat a short way up the tunnel.

“Up there,” she pointed to an alcove a few feet up before turning and calling, “Master?”

A man in heavy coat, head and face wrapped in a deep red scarf, reached down a gloved hand to the girl. At a short run she scaled the wall, took his hand, and he pulled her up. Drizzt didn’t bother to give the man time to reach for him, climbing to the space on his own power, eyes scanning for-

“Artemis,” he breathed a sigh of relief seeing the assassin resting against the opposite wall, leg propped up on a sturdy pack. The assassin held a waterskin out to him with a weak, tired smile. Drizzt traded the man’s dagger for the skin as he sat beside him.

“Your friend is lucky. The dagger replenished some of the blood lost. If we can break the fever he should make it to the surface in one piece.” an oddly toned male voice said, Drizzt assumed was the girl’s “master” but, a few words in, he found that the voice had no real focal point.

His heart sank.


	27. A Bleeding Heart

Flesh was easy. Flesh was always easy for someone like Draygo. It was soft and supple like good fabric, easily cut, measured, maneuvered, and stitched together. It was one of the most delicate, yet surprisingly forgiving mediums to work with. It grafted well, required little, if any, effort after attachment unlike limbs or organs that needed extra magic to make sure they functioned properly. It was always abundant, constantly regenerating in a way other tissues simply could not. Pliant and versatile it could be molded into monsters or even new, better men than that which it was taken from in the right hands. Yes, flesh was a preferable medium.

Bones, however, were another story. They were strong, the lot of them, most akin to stone in strength and hardness. While beneficial in a finished product, bones made the actual process of construction or deconstruction much more difficult.

Which was the problem Draygo Quick found himself faced with while he floated above his own body attempting to undo the lethal damage Drizzt Do’Urden had dealt him.

The ribcage was something most necromancers tried not to fiddle with. It was the core of the body, protected the most vital of life organs in a construct, second only to the brain and gave the construct its basic size and shape. Messing with it meant messing with the longevity of a construct. Or, in this case, the longevity of his personal form.

Draygo wasn’t about to do that.

He lacked time to spare, but took a moment anyway to see what his options could be. He could crack open the center to get access to the heart and hope it healed properly or he could go around and risk dislodging organs or floundering to get at the heart without tampering with the cage. The first method was faster, more likely to ensure survival as his tether was steadily fading anyway, but the second method was the right way.

As he thought, Draygo reached for the small, black box on his worktable. Its magic hummed up his arm, eager. He took a deep, unnecessary breath and cracked it open. Runes along the outer rim fizzled and popped in little sparks as the seal was broken.

The small, purple organ sat on an equally small, velvet cushion. It made soft clicking noises as it beat, valves opening and closing with nothing but air to flow through them. Arteries along the dark muscle swelled and shrank, peeking like black leeches out of collections of grey and blue fat, with each motion. Small runes along the seams and folds glowed a soft blue when it contracted, going dark when it relaxed. The magic was not only functional, it was powerful.

Draygo Quick breathed a little easier. At least now he knew it would take and all this wasn’t a completely wasted effort. Now to get the damn thing in place.

He set the box down beside his body, its breathing dangerously slow, and he decided that cracking the ribcage open was his only option. Luckily he had prepared for this.

It was tricky business, breaking bone without the shards causing more damage in a form that wasn’t meant for physical tasks. He winced with every blow, every sickening crack, and every shard he had to set aside.

The warlock could feel himself drifting away, the tether holding him to life going slack.

Without time to be delicate, Draygo took up a knife, shifted bone out of the way, and cut his own heart from his chest as quickly as he could manage with short, jagged slashes. He tossed the wounded thing aside, careless. Hilariously, he thought of new apprentices with a similar disrespect for body parts and the harsh scolding he’d given them.

His hands were shaking and nearly dropped the new heart on the floor as he moved it from box to cavity. He held tightly to the protrusions of bone on either side of the gaping hole, watching and praying that the magic would take hold before the body died.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Drizzt saw the girl sit beside Artemis and rummage through the bag propping up his leg, pulling out several things but not finding what she was looking for. She gave up the search quickly, moving her little stack of supplies into working order. It wasn’t much, a large glass bottle filled with a clear liquid, a smaller red tinted bottle, several strips and pieces of cloth, and a small knife.  She muttered something that sounded like, “Really wish they let me keep my sewing kit,” but Drizzt wasn’t sure, his attention was focused elsewhere.

“Show your face,” he said after a drawn out moment of silent consideration of the creature that sat less than ten feet away, “I already know what you are.”

Artemis made a curious noise beside him, eager for a distraction from his bandages being changed and the wound beneath them prodded and cleaned.

The creature tilted its head curiously. Then, with a shrug, reached and pulled a few folds of the scarf about its face loose. The whole thing unraveled, pooling about its shoulders, tentacles stretching and twisting like limbs free of confinement.

Drizzt heard Artemis make a thoughtful noise, almost like recognition. Confused, he turned to the man who he seemed more on the verge of laughing than afraid.

“That explains why they saved us,” Artemis commented and when Drizzt scowled at him he clarified, “The amulet thing Jarlaxle gave us to stop the primordial, remember?” The drow nodded, remembering the mercenary attempting to hand over such an item before his world went dark, but only vaguely. “Well,” the assassin grunted with pain as the girl beside him pulled at the bandages, “Effron looked into it. Apparently it was made by illithids. It seems too much coincidence for two different ones to interact with us.” He turned to the creature, “If you want it back, we don’t have it.”

Drizzt turned to the creature and saw it shake its head. “It has already been used. We aided your friends in Gauntlgrym. They were victorious. The ruin is secure for now.”

_Aided?_

Both human and drow cast confused looks at the creature, but it was the girl that explained, “My Master wanted to preserve the ruin, but the drow, and even the other illithid that arrived there, refused to listen. Your friends shared a similar goal and we helped them win the day.”

Drizzt felt his anger diminish, but was left with questions to fill the void. “I don’t understand,” he said first to the girl and then to the illithid, “How do expect me to believe that? Surely you must want something.”

“I only want,” the creature said, it sounded tired and faint, “to see you get to the surface in one piece.”

“Why?” the question came out, sharp and too-loud before Drizzt had a chance to stop himself.

Artemis made a pained sound next to him and he turned to see the girl leveling a scowl at him, “Enough. You should-“ she stopped midsentence and didn’t pick up again, turning back and focusing on her given task.

“Because I choose to,” the creature answered.

Drizzt didn’t like that answer. There had to be some catch, something this thing wanted from them. But it hadn’t acted against them, hadn’t made demands. If the mind flayer had wanted to capture them, they would have been properly captured; in irons, without weapons or at least without the ability to think coherently enough to use them. Not having wounds tended to, being offered water and rest, and a rescue from those monsters the githyanki. Why was it even answering his questions?

“Because I choose to,” the illithid said again, answering the ranger’s internal question and leaving him uneasy. “But you desire a better reason.” Its tentacles swirled thoughtfully for several moments before it said, “I am tired of being told what is worth fighting against, what is worth saving, and being threatened with violence at the thought of disagreeing. I am tired of a man behind a closed door and power that does not care deciding what I kill, what I learn, and when I die with only false promises in return.

“I do this because your Spider Queen is just as intrusive on the free will of Her subjects as my Elder, and I want to stick it to her.” A soft, wet coughing noise, “Taking away her priestess’s magic is but the first step, but everything must start with one and I am willing to offer my services for the cause no matter what trouble it may land me in.” A soft gurgle akin to a sigh, “I have already been branded a heretic, my life and hers are forfeit, so we might as well die quickly for a cause, than slowly in punishment for breaking the mold.”

“Awfully hypocritical for a creature from a race of slave drivers” Drizzt laughed, “to value free will so highly.”

 “Awfully hypocritical for a man so dependent on others overlooking their racism to throw about racist assumptions toward those attempting to help him, yet here we are,” the illithid countered.

That shut Drizzt up for a moment and he heard Artemis and the girl laughing beside him. “Really?” he asked the assassin.

Artemis only shrugged and made a face before losing it in a wince and a sharp noise of pain when the girl poured the contents of the clear bottle onto his wound. The whole alcove was filled with an astringent smell afterward. Hastily she dampened one of the cloths with something from the red bottle and pressed it to the wound, eliciting a sigh of relief.

 “I will never say you are wrong to question my motives. My people are fearsome and untrustworthy.” The creature relaxed a little in its seat, nonthreatening, form slouching on the edges of Drizzt’s vision. “However, do you think,” it asked, gently prodding, “that you are the only man in the realm that wants to break the shackles his people have placed upon him?”

Drizzt turned back to the creature, more than a little insulted and alarmed, but reluctantly accepting the care they were offering and that Artemis obviously needed. He would deal with consequences later if the need arose.

“That is all I ask of you, Master Do’Urden.” The creature settled in and said no more.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Dahlia’s down there? How far?”

They had found a space to hold group meetings within eyeshot of both the ledge overlooking the entrance to the Underdark and their designated campsite. The group of four gathered around as Effron told them about Dahlia coming out of the tunnels and their conversation with Athrogate supplying a few extra details.

The other two exchanged glances once the story was over. “That can’t be good.” Afafrenfere grumbled, “We may have to do something.”

“She doesn’t seem to want anything to do with us,” Effron replied.

Ambergris wasn’t moved, “Ye sure she didn’t know anything? She might’ve gone down there to kill ‘em and snowed you about it. I don’t like having the traitorous bitch this close.”

The warlock held his hands up, “I know. I don’t _like_ it either.”

They tossed around ideas including going down into the Underdark or sending a team at least, maybe going in shifts. “We’d never get anywhere,” Effron argued. “And even if we did, what if we got lost? Then we’d have four people stuck down there against gods know what, _remember?_ ”

“How are we gonna wait here then,” the cleric shot back, “how long before we decide they aren’t coming and we move on?”

“We ain’t movin’ on,” Athrogate said sharply, drawing all gazes to him, “Not unless we know they’re dead or not there. Understood? We ain’t abandonin’ people.” The anger and conviction in his voice made it seem so very final no one raised a voice to argue.

“Let’s just,” Afafrenfere tried to break the weird energy that settled around them, “switch shifts. And if Dahlia tries anything funny we’ll deal with her,” he said the last part directly to Ambergris, but the cleric didn’t hear him. Her gaze was too focused on the dwarf across from her, concerned and bewildered.

“Right. Let’s go.”

-0-0-0-0-0-

Once Artemis’s wound had been fully tended to, rewrapped and doused with something the girl said would numb the pain for a while, things fell into comfortable silence. Well, almost comfortable, Drizzt kept finding himself staring at the illithid out of the corner of his eye. Although the creature had made no move against them, sitting out of the way with legs tucked in close, eyes closed, tentacles moving in a simple pattern, appearing in meditation, the ranger couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

It helped, however, that the girl took charge and tried to keep both men focused on recuperating and readying for the rest of their journey. At one point she pulled a small bundle out of the bag under Artemis’s leg. She unwrapped it to show a roll of something Drizzt couldn’t identify; it was white and dusty looking, flecked with blues and greens and the occasional black speck. It was about the size of a roll of bread. The girl set it on the fabric and broke it in half, the thing was crumbly at the edges but soft, almost wet in the middle. She offered half to the assassin who took it and eyed it like it was poisonous.

A snort and the girl took a piece from Artemis’s half and popped it in her mouth; a signal that it was not poison, but food. “It tastes pretty awful,” she warned, “but it gets the job done and you need to get some strength back.” She offered the other half to Drizzt, but he declined. Not questioning she started picking at the spare whatever it was herself.

Artemis looked to Drizzt, who shrugged. Wary, he broke off a piece. The thing sent him into a coughing fit before he even had a chance to close his mouth. “Ugh,” he spat, “you weren’t kidding.”

“You learn to ignore it,” was all she said back.

They settled into stiff conversation. The girl, Nana, kept prodding the human to eat the thing and he continued to resist her. She told them about the way out and even showed them on a very small, very confusing, map of the tunnels. Drizzt asked her several questions about the gith and what they knew about what was going on, but was met only with a shrug.

“I don’t know what they’re doing here,” she said bluntly, “As far as I know, they have no reason to be sent here. And they’re all over the place which is weird too, like they’re looking for something rather than just causing mayhem. I encountered them as far south as-“ She stopped suddenly, about to point out where she’d seen them on the map.

She took the parchment abruptly and stared at it as if it had betrayed her. Gloved fingers traced tunnel lines from both ends of the map, and the look of anxiety on her face only worsened.

Everything happened so quickly after that.

“Nana?” Artemis asked.

Drizzt looked over to the creature, thinking it had addressed her silently, but no. It was still.

Suddenly, the elf girl was scrounging through the back under Artemis’s leg so roughly it nearly knocked the assassin aside. When she sat back there was a small book in her shaking hands and she struggled to open it and flip through the pages. She shook her head, made a frustrated noise, and rose to her feet.

“What is it?” Drizzt asked this time, but she ignored him just as she ignored his companion.

“Master,” she shook the illithid urgently, rousing it from its meditations. It scowled at her and she handed it the book. A silent conversation followed, the girl shifting about nervously.

The creature took the book and started to flip through it.

Nana returned and started to pack up what she could, taking the bag from under Artemis’s leg. “You have to leave,” she said, sharp, “it’s not safe here. You need to make a break for the surface now.”

“What? Why?” The two men asked. They both knew that it would be better if they stayed for as long as they could, get Artemis’s fever to break fully, the wound to actually close. Leaving now left both of them vulnerable and the assassin might not even make it despite the improvements he’d made in the short time that had passed.

She fussed with her hair, seemingly to calm herself and focus, and sat on the bag once she packed it. “Because we aren’t exactly well liked and it seems,” there was agitation in her voice, not quite fear but more like she wanted to get things over with instead of explain it, “the people that want us punished for our crimes are already here. And they’ll kill anyone they come across trying to get to us. Especially if-“

Sound started echoing in from the tunnel. An indistinct muddling of noises.

“It _is_ him,” her master interrupted. “And he is not far.”

“No.” She looked out of the alcove and into the tunnel. A few seconds passed before she collected herself.

The two looked to the girl who waved them up, shaking the look of terror from her face and replacing it with a mask of professionalism. She held out her hand and, with the ranger’s help, pulled the assassin to his feet. They were ushered to the edge and brought back down. Artemis managed to catch himself on one foot but collided heavily with the ranger on his first actual step.

“What is going on?”

“My people know about what we have been doing,” the illithid answered gliding down behind the group holding up the book as evidence, “they seem to have known for some time and were prepared for word of my betrayal. The man they sent after us is… unhinged. We can lead him out of your path, but you must not linger.”

Nana guided them along. She was about to turn back when Drizzt took her by the arm. “Come with us,” he pleaded, “help me carry him. We’ll get there faster.”

She shook her head, reaching up to knock her long hair over her shoulder and it swished at her back, “No. I can’t. Go, please.”

“I don’t want to leave you here.”

“Drizzt.” The assassin pulled him along.

The sounds echoing around them grew clearer. Sounds of combat, getting louder. The harsh, guttural language of the githyanki ringing out against it.

“Go,” she said again, but Drizzt was persistent.

“You don’t need to stay here,” he hissed. “You can come back to the surface with us.”

Again, she shook her head, “No, there is nothing for me up there anymore. My place in the world is here. I may not have planned it and your bleeding heart might not like it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

The sounds were getting louder.

“You have a choice,” Drizzt tried one last time.

“Then I choose to stay with my Master.”

Artemis, not wanting to be stuck in the tunnels with those things and willing to let the foolish girl make her sacrifice, pulled the ranger away. As a consolation he pulled the black sword, scabbard and all, from its place on the drow’s hip and handed it to the girl. “Take this then. Its drow make, and it’s better than nothing.”

Nana took the sword and backed out of reach. “Be quick. Gain ground while you still can.” She turned and left them, tossing the sword to her master when she reached the creature. Then the two took off together out of sight.

Artemis pulled Drizzt back to attention and they started away. Eventually, Drizzt got his focus back and they picked up speed, putting as much distance between themselves and the sound as possible.

Then the shouting started. Voices raised over the fighting. It took everything Drizzt had in him to ignore it.

But the screaming brought him to a stop. Artemis too. The two men looking back over their shoulders down the dark, empty tunnel. The sound almost pulled Drizzt toward it, but the assassin held him in place. “No,” he whispered, “we can’t go back.”

Artemis nudged him and Drizzt forced one foot in front of the other.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Black lines branched out from the spot Draygo had placed the heart, moving like wisps of smoke through the fluid that threatened to engulf it. The thing shifted and thrashed about, finding its proper place and latching on. Those lines and smoke turned to webbing. Blue sparks shot across the newly-formed seams as the heart fused with the rest of him.

Draygo leaned back, panting as if he’d run the length of the castle grounds twice over. The heart had taken, but that wasn’t a guarantee that he’d make it back to the world of the living. Scrambling, Draygo tried to reset bone and undo as much damage as he possibly could before the spell wore off and he’d finally have to feel pain again.

He would live. But how well and how long was still in the air.


	28. The Dark Light of Day

The noise died down eventually. Drizzt couldn’t tell how long after he heard those final screams since they kept ringing in his head, but he knew that it must have at some point. Artemis wouldn’t have spoken if it hadn’t.

“Focus,” it was a soft growl, more pained than threatening, but it got Drizzt to snap back into reality, and for that he was thankful. “We need to get out of here. We can mourn the dead later.” The assassin listed dangerously to one side and Drizzt had to stumble to keep him upright. The medicine Nana had given him had worn off some time ago.

“I know,” the ranger panted, “I know.”

If he had just argued with her a little longer, given her a better reason to come with them, something more compelling, he could have saved her. Drizzt felt it like a knife in his side. She could have lived. She could have been free. This wasn’t the first time he’d watched someone march to their death because he hadn’t been persuasive enough to convince them otherwise.

He stumbled again when Artemis turned his step into his path. The ranger nearly fell over, but managed to right himself swiftly and turned a concerned look on the man. “Artem-“

“It isn’t your fault,” the human said, firm, as though he’d said it a few times before Drizzt actually paid him any mind. “She made her choice. There was nothing you could do to stop her.”

Drizzt ground his teeth. Now wasn’t the time to pick a fight with the man, but he couldn’t stop himself from arguing, “It wasn’t _her_ choice. She was a slave, her loyalty bought.” He shook his head, “I let her die.”

“Allow me let you in on a little secret,” Artemis tipped his head and whispered in Drizzt’s ear. When the ranger turned to face him, “I know what slaves look like up close. They’re dead, soulless, their gazes blank and distant. That girl, she had a fire in her eyes still, she was alive. That girl was _cared for_ and treated well. Her loyalty was earned and _she_ made the choice to act on it. Her death is not on your shoulders.” He coughed, “Now if I die because you were too distracted to get us out of here, that _will_ be on you. _Focus.”_

After struggling to get out that last word, Artemis pitched forward leg buckling completely under him, and he toppled into Drizzt sending both men sidestepping into the wall. The assassin pressed his back to the stone, trying to regain his breath. Drizzt kept an arm under him to stop the human from sliding to the ground.

“It’s starting to go numb. The whole thing,” Artemis pressed his fingers into the muscle of his wounded thigh trying to get some of the feeling back, even if it was just pain. His breath refused to come back to him in anything but labored gasps and too-familiar chill was returning to his skin.

Drizzt pressed his free hand to the human’s forehead, he was more than just warm now. A tight ball of worry formed in his throat. They were running out of time again. After he’d wasted so much of it. Looking down the tunnel, the ranger brought the whistle hanging around his neck to his lips and blew into it in a single drawn-out note. The sound echoed off the walls in all directions, and he hoped that maybe, just maybe, they were close enough to the surface for Andahar to hear it. He waited, barely breathing and offering Artemis a few more moments of rest.

The unicorn wasn’t coming.

“We aren’t close enough,” he tried to sound determined, but was certain he failed, “We need to keep going. Just hold on a little while longer, okay?”

Artemis tried to keep his expression passive, but the pain and exhaustion were clear beneath. “Okay. Let’s go.” The assassin threw his arm over Drizzt’s shoulder, his other hand bracing against the wall to help him keep what little balance he still had.

He hadn’t wanted to summon Guenhwyvar again so soon, but he saw few other options for keeping any future enemies at bay. Drizzt knew he wouldn’t be able to fight with Artemis in this condition. They’d have to avoid conflict altogether and for that they’d need a scout. He tossed the figurine with a gentle call.

The panther looked around a bit, confused at the empty tunnel, then turned to her ranger. She stopped to eye the wounded assassin leaning heavily on Drizzt, cocking her head to one side, before finally looking at the drow.

“Go ahead,” He instructed, “come back if you see anything. An exit, animals, soldiers, anything.”

With a soft huff of understanding, the panther spun and bounded off into the darkness.

They had a little more time now, but not much. Drizzt breathed a little easier, hopefully they’d find a way out before Guenhwyvar had to return to her home. If not…

He didn’t particularly want to think about it.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Jarlaxle grabbed a pair of mercenaries, pointing and snapping his fingers at random and demanding the two come along, and a set of official-looking cloaks to wear without so much as breaking stride as the quartet left the headquarters. By the time they reached the Xorlarrin gate he had already delivered instructions to those new to the endeavor and all six men had their faces covered. The two mercenaries swept up in all this lowered their hoods spoke to the guards for them.

“We’ve come to speak to Matron Mother Zeerith,” they said with practiced ease. “We bring word from her daughters in Gauntlgrym.” The guards tried to turn them away, but Jarlaxle had prepared them for such things, “It is a matter of urgency concerning the safety of the complex. The primordial is threating to break loose. We were told to speak with her immediately.” One pulled out a folded piece of parchment sealed with wax, his fingers conveniently covering a seal that was not House Xorlarrin’s.

A few nervous, questioning glances and the guards let them in. A small group surrounded them and ushered them through to the matron’s chamber. Tiago heard Jarlaxle scoff beside him when they entered.

Matron Zeerith was dashing about shouting orders for her soldiers to hunker down and keep the house safe. She demanded they not worry about deserters or escaped slaves; that their secrets and magic were more important and those people could be dealt with or replaced. It wouldn’t be long, she claimed, before other houses clamored to her for magic items and scrolls to make up the difference brought by lost clerical might.

“Matron,” one of the female guards surrounding the small group of mercenaries prompted when Zeerith stopped giving orders, “mercenaries from Gauntlgrym. They say it’s urgent.”

Suddenly they had the Matron’s undivided attention, “Yes? What’s happened now?”

Without removing their hoods, the older mercenaries in very back of the group spoke up:

“The primordial has been threatening to break loose, Matron,” Valas Hune said first, his speaking stiff and harsh, “The priestesses request advice and possibly something that can be used to dampen it.”

“The driders have also gone mad, Matron, “Kimmuriel added, falling just as easily into his role as Jarlaxle had when he impersonated the Baenre guard, “They are posing a serious threat to life and limb.”

Zeerith sat back in her chair, a look of worry flashing briefly over her face. Whispers began erupting all around about whether the ruin would be a lost cause without Lolth’s power and if that meant everyone was coming home. Some people gloated that they knew the whole thing was a wash from the beginning and were lucky their voices couldn’t be picked out from the gather.

Distracted by the noise, Matron Zeerith dismissed nearly everyone. She shouted, demanded they go to their duties, and was left with only a few quiet priestesses, all other guards taking up their posts outside the room.

Tiago and Jarlaxle stepped to the front of the group once the doors were shut, pulling their hoods back as they did so. Jarlaxle paused adjust his cloak and fetch his hat from beneath it, and gave a short bow before replacing it on his head.

“What is-“ Zeerith lurched forward in her seat demanding all six men be seized.

Jarlaxle laughed, looking sidelong at Tiago, “That’d be awfully convenient wouldn’t it? Her to take us hostage.”

“Would almost look like leverage,” Tiago replied in a similar, mocking tone.

Zeerith raised her hand to still her priestesses. “Excuse me?”

“Oh nothing,” Jarlaxle laughed, “It’s just that there’s a manhunt out for two of us at the request of Matron Baenre. For us to be held prisoner here would look awfully suspicious. Almost like you captured Tiago after he captured us and wanted to hold onto to trade for Quenthel’s leniency.”

“That is of course,” Tiago added, “Assuming she wants us that badly. Which she might.”

The Matron set her jaw and scowled, “What would I possibly want her leniency for?”

“You don’t know?” Tiago laughed, “Well, I told Quenthel about that little coup you and your daughters are planning and she wasn’t too happy about the betrayal.”

Zeerith started in her chair. “Coup?” She shouted, gripping the arms until her nails dug into the leather upholstery. “There is no- _You_ were the traitor and deserter. Why should I believe-“

“Because I spoke to Quenthel. I told her that my desertion was to capture the Chosen for the glory of House Baenre something your priestesses didn’t see as very necessary. Especially since they were trying to overthrow my Matron, which is something I could not stand to be a part of.” Tiago replied.

Her eyes went wide and she snarled at them, “Why should I believe that any of this is true?”

“No one says you have to,” Jarlaxle said, “but when the Baenres come you’ll wish you had. We’re here for a reason, Zeerith. To make you an offer.” He gestured widely as he spoke, presenting the two young mercenaries they’d brought along, “I will give you these two men, who will pose as spies on your behalf reporting from Gauntlgrym about your daughters’ plot. Spies _you_ hired to make sure that those priestesses didn’t use the ruin to overthrow you. You will be portrayed as just as much the victim as Quenthel. It won’t be pretty for Saribel or Berellip, but you and your house shall remain mostly safe.”

Zeerith said nothing, watching the mercenary closely.

“Or,” Jarlaxle laughed, “You could try your luck in capturing us and see how much Quenthel is willing to forgive in exchange. But, I know Quenthel; she’ll just kill us _and_ you.”

“What do you want in return?” Zeerith asked, much to the surprise of her priestesses.

“You can’t be serious, Matron Mother,” one interjected, “The truth will come out, it’s better-“

“Let me tell you something, sweetness,” Tiago took a step toward her in spite of her scowl, “the truth will never matter. The only thing that does matter is what the people with the power believe. Quenthel has the power and she _believes_ the coup is real. She finds out we so much as set _foot_ in this building she’ll believe the coup is real and all of us are covering it up. Her paranoia is strong and her army is mighty, best to deflect it now than endure and hope it dissolves.”

Jarlaxle only nodded his agreement.

The priestess was silent. Zeerith posed her question again.

“Magic,” Jarlaxle replied, “we need access to the surface.”

“Two portals,” Tiago added, “Nothing more.”

The Matron didn’t respond.

“My offer has a very limited shelf-life, Zeerith.” Jarlaxle threatened, “You best decide now, because when Quenthel finds out we’re not where she put us and her army regroups she’s going to kick down your door first. And when she does, there’ll be nothing left of this place or you.”

Zeerith angrily tapped her finger against the torn leather on her chair. If looks could kill the two men would have been dead a hundred times over by the time she gave her answer.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The two trucked on in a daze. They waited with stifled breath for the sounds of birdsongs, the howl of a breeze, the smell of crisp new air flowing in from outside, the soft glow of distant light. Around every turn, every long tunnel the two men hoped for some sign heralding their closeness to the surface. They had directions, they knew the way but time and distance seemed to not be passing normally and through their daze they only hoped to see some sign. Just one.

Every turn no such sign came to them.

After what felt like hours of silence, a sound passed between them. Artemis swallowed hard and huffed a sharp breath through his nose. Briefly Drizzt was hopeful that the assassin had regained some feeling in his leg and his sounds are ones of pain; even if the idea did send a pang through his heart so intense it nearly brought tears to his eyes. He looked to the man, adjusting his grip, hoping for something like good news.

“I can’t see,” his voice shook, quiet and little more than a rasp, “My darkvision is failing.”

Drizzt’s heart sank. _Oh no._

“We can’t be far,” Drizzt fought the tightness in his throat, “We can’t be.” He blew a sharp note through the whistle again.

Again, nothing came.

“They’re going to find us,” the assassin warned, “if you keep doing that.” He leaned more heavily against Drizzt, his feet dragging along the ground beneath him. He wasn’t going to be able to stay on his feet much longer.

“The blood trail you’re leaving is bound to lead them to us faster,” Drizzt quipped back. The situation was too dire for humor, he knew, but he couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t carry Artemis forever and all the tunnels were starting to look the same again. Where were the sounds, the light, something, _anything_ to guide them better.

At least Guenhwyvar hadn’t come back to warn them of anything yet. He saw her pass through the shadows ahead of them a few times as they progressed. She never roamed too far.

Artemis’s labored breathing pulled Drizzt back into focus on him.  “Stop,” he panted, “Just stop. Leave me here. Go get the others and come back for me.”

“No.”

The assassin laughed, “I tell Jarlaxle not to leave me and he does. I tell you to leave and you won’t. Why does _no one_ listen to me?”  He gritted his teeth around the words, “Drizzt, please. It’ll be faster and safer for you this way-“

“I’m _not_ leaving you here,” the ranger growled back. “I’m going to get you to the surface one way or another. Even if I have to summon your steed and make it carry you.”

The grip around Drizzt’s neck tightened, “If that was something that could actually work, you would have done it by now. But the size of some of these tunnels can’t accommodate a horse or-”

“You’ll die,” the ranger bit, as if that would be enough to end the argument.

A sharp breath, “And you’re going to wait around to be captured while I do? I’ve been ready for death for a long time. As long-“

“You are not the only person that counts your death as a loss, Artemis Entreri.” Emotion broke his voice and Drizzt felt a burn start behind his eyes and into his nose.

Artemis said no more.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They were ushered to a far-flung wing of the complex and told to wait outside on a balcony while the spellspinners were gathered and space was cleared for the portals.

“She’s going to take it,” Jarlaxle sighed, looking out over the city, “My life’s work.” There was more anger there than resignation and everyone around him took that as a good sign.

Valas was the first to speak after, “It isn’t all lost. Once we set up a base on the surface we can start bringing people there. Call on some of the recruits already up there to help us. Shouldn’t take them long to respond.”

Jarlaxle nodded and looked to Kimmuriel, “Do we still have that building in Luskan? The operation we never finalized.”

The psionicist thought for a moment and then nodded, “I never sold it, if that’s what you’re asking. It isn’t exactly in working order though.”

The other didn’t seem to care, “Good. Then that’s where we’ll go.”

“What are you planning?” Tiago couldn’t help but ask.

The mercenary turned and looked at him thoughtfully for several long moments. “Revenge,” he said with such finality and grit that it was intimidating on its own, “Quenthel and the Matrons before her have stolen too much from me, my partners, and my guild to go unpunished. She’ll think she’s won for now, but I’ll figure out a way to do something.”

“So you don’t have a plan,” Valas laughed.

Jarlaxle shrugged, “I’ll think of something.”

Kimmuriel didn’t hesitate to sigh in bitter exasperation. “Do you have any idea what you’re getting into?” he said, sounding like a disgruntled father scolding a precocious child, “This isn’t some minor house we can sweep into, kill the powerful, and nab the useful survivors. This is _House Baenre_. A house that has been ruling this city longer than you or I have been alive. You think you’re just going to be able to barge in and take Quenthel out? Are you mad?”

“You’ll need allies,” Tiago agreed, “More than just the guild. House Baenre’s power comes from numbers and loyalty. You will need the same.”

“And just where are we supposed to find those allies?” Kimmuriel argued as if Tiago hadn’t just agreed with him, but instead offered Jarlaxle an option. “We’d need the entire _city_ to get enough of them and, as evidenced by what we just accomplished, _unity_ isn’t exactly something these people understand.”

A thoughtful silence lingered over the group.

“We’ll have to give them something they’d unite for on their own for.” Valas offered, “Something everyone wants. What does everyone here want?”

Kimmuriel and Tiago listed off a number of things; power, riches, favor with the Spider Queen, loyalty, but nothing seemed to stick. Jarlaxle shook his head at everything they offered, but eventually his thoughtful scowl softened to a smile. “No,” he said, breathless, as if his idea dangled in front of him like some golden treasure, “their magic. Every matron, every high priestess, they want their magic back.”

The Oblodra beside him didn’t seem so happy with the idea, “And how do you propose to give it to them.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Tiago interrupted before Jarlaxle could come up with a witty retort, “he only has to promise it to them. To show them he can. Get Do’Urden down here, bring his friends even, and have him make a decree that-“

“That House Baenre must fall if they want his return. That their incompetence will not be tolerated by Lolth anymore.” Jarlaxle’s smile widened, “If they want their magic back permanently a new house must rule. “ He laughed, “and then we whisk him back out and let them fight it out.”

“And take him prisoner,” Kimmuriel said flatly, “when there is a winner?”

Jarlaxle shook his head, “No, that’s the beauty of it. The amount of time it’ll take to accomplish this, Lolth will already come back and Drizzt’ll be irrelevant then. Well, hopefully. If not we may have to take him prisoner for a little while.”

“I’m sure Entreri will just let you take him,” the psionicist laughed, “I’m sure _Drizzt_ will be more than happy to come back down here.”

“They can be convinced,” Jarlaxle replied unfazed by his comrade’s sarcasm, “eventually.”

Kimmuriel was about to give another quip when the group was demanded to get a move on with all this portal business from a particularly ornery spellspinner. Jarlaxle led the way in giving the spinners a location and the other necessary information.

“Tiago,” he said once the caster set to work on his request, “Did you get word of how far out the search parties went looking for the Chosen?” He rattled off several locations they could have checked including:

“The Aerie?” Tiago laughed sharply after answering a few others for appearances, “They checked thoroughly earlier today, but no one was there.” He shook his head and whispered, “That sneaky bitch knew,” under his breath.

Jarlaxle snickered at his frustration. “Well, they’re probably on the surface by now anyway,” he commented loud enough for everyone to hear.

The Baenre just shook his head. A spinner came up and asked him where he wanted to place the second portal and he smiled a wicked, sinister smile. “I’d like to find someone first,” he growled, digging through his pockets and holding up a small lock of dark red hair.

Jarlaxle was still smiling when he and his two men passed through their portal.

“Here’s the plan,” Jarlaxle said once they were safely on the other side. “Valas,” the scout perked up, “I need you go and find Drizzt and his friends. You said they’d meet in the Moonwood and they can’t have gone far from there if clerical magic is the same way up here that is in Menzoberranzan. When you find them I want you to observe from a distance _only_. Don’t let them notice you, don’t engage them, don’t interfere. Try and find something we can use as currency to get Drizzt to go along with us.”

“Understood,” Valas Hune didn’t await further instructions, just took off down one of the side streets surrounding them to start his mission.

“Kimmuriel,” the psionicist sighed at the sound of his name, but turned to the mercenary, “stay here with me. We need to get this place in working order and contact the other outposts. I want as many people here as I can get to start pulling their comrades and valuables out before Quenthel takes everything. Anything that can’t be carried or easily transported needs to be destroyed.”

Kimmuriel nodded, planning out the orders he would give in his mind and falling into step behind the leader. Several of the outposts hadn’t gotten word of Jarlaxle’s retaking of the guild and he had a _lot_ of explaining to do when the troops finally arrived.

This was not going to be pleasant.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The assassin suddenly became heavier, his full weight tugging against Drizzt’s shoulder and pulling them both to the ground. The ranger tried to catch them both, but wound up just falling at an awkward angle and winding himself. He coughed and gasped, reaching for the other man to check him for signs of life.

He was still breathing, but his skin felt like he was on fire.

“Artemis?” the drow shook him gently, trying to rouse him. “Artemis, wake up. Come on. We have to keep going.”

The human groaned a pained, tired sound. “Stop, Drizzt, just stop. It’s pointless. I can’t go any further like this.”

Drizzt shook his head, only to remember a second later that Artemis couldn’t see him anymore, “No, Artemis. We can make it, just-“

“Enough,” there was a firm authority in his voice. “Go without me. Get to the surface, bring Amber down with you she’ll be able to heal me.”

_That’s not going to work_. A sing-song voice chimed in Drizzt’s ear. He snapped his head toward the voice and saw nothing but the shifting of shadows.

“Not this,” he muttered under his breath, “not now.”

“Drizzt, please listen to me,” Artemis tugged on his arm, “Go. If you stay here with me and the Baenres catch up and capture you, all of this will be for nothing. You need to get out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Drizzt snarled at him clutching fistfuls of the man’s shirt as if that would somehow ground him, “I’m not.”

With what little strength he had left, Artemis pushed himself up on his elbows. He winced with the effort. “I’m just slowing you down. And you said it yourself, the blood trail I’m leaving is bound to lead things to you. Make-“

The drow shushed him. “I’m staying with you. Even if you die down here I… I’m not letting you die alone because of me.”

“What does that change?” Artemis sank back to the floor, a soft laugh bubbling up in his words, a slight lilt bordering on a hysteria Drizzt had only heard in the assassin’s voice once before, “Whether I die here or up there, alone or with you. Does it really change anything?”

“It changes something for me,” he sounded so small, so meek.

The human didn’t answer. Drizzt sank lower beside him, resting his head against the human’s chest. His eyes scanned the tunnels for movement. His ears focused on the thrum of the human’s heartbeat in his ear. It was slow and quieter than Drizzt had ever heard it before.

The ranger brought the silver whistle around his neck to his lips and blew a few notes; flat and fluttery ones, not very loud.

“Don’t make this for nothing,” Artemis was pleading with him, “don’t linger here. I won’t blame you.”

“You won’t have to,” Drizzt sighed around the whistle, puffing another note. The burn in his eyes was back with a vengeance, spreading through his nose and down his throat. “I’ll do enough of it myself.”

“Drizzt-“

“What was it you said?” He let the whistle fall back around his neck as he sat up and ran a hand through the assassin’s damp hair, “That night in Neverwinter. When I almost killed Dahlia for you?” He dug through his memories until he found it, “ _Sword-point or side_? Remember _, no matter what we’re stuck with each other_? You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Artemis’s scowl softened. He knew he was going to lose the argument.

“We’ll both get out of here, together.” Drizzt lowered his head, “We will. Just…rest a while and I’ll get you back on your feet and we’ll keep going.”

He heard the other man take a deep breath, ready to argue, but he just sighed and said nothing. Defeated, Drizzt thought he sounded, like he knew there was no more arguing he could do. That the whole thing would be pointless.

The human’s breathing deepened after that; consciousness gone. Drizzt squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight the burn. “No,” he whispered to the still darkness around him, “not again. Not like this.” He blew this whistle again, but couldn’t catch his breath enough to get more than a warble.

He pushed up onto his hands and knees. With shaking hands he rifled through the assassin’s pockets for the little statuette to summon his nightmare. The tunnels might be tight, but getting the steed to carry the man was better than just leaving him to die.

When he finally got his hands on the little thing Drizzt realized he didn’t know the creature’s name and couldn’t summon it. Artemis must have said it around him a dozen times or so. Perhaps even more. But Drizzt couldn’t for the life of him remember the name. He rattled his thoughts around, trying to find the memory buried deep but all he heard was laughter in its place.

He growled at nothing, frustrated, clutching the little horse so tightly it made his hand hurt.

“Damn it.”

 He sank back down, listening to the human’s heart still stubbornly beating in a vain attempt to calm himself down. “There has to be something. Something I can do.” He wrapped an arm around the man, and felt something dig into him.

Entreri’s dagger.

Drizzt eyed the weapon hopefully. It had healed his shoulder when Dahlia had tried to kill them both. It had repaired the assassin’s wounds hundred if not thousands of times. He touched the emerald studded hilt, tentative. Magic pulsed through his fingers.

_Do it._

The ranger snapped his head up at the voice. He didn’t see anything, but if he closed his eyes he would have sworn someone was kneeling next to him. That voice, that presence.

“No.” Drizzt said aloud.

If Artemis had thought using the dagger to heal himself was an option he would have stabbed Drizzt while he was still unconscious. He’d even taken a swing at the elf girl, but not bothered to even cast a sidelong glance at Drizzt the entire time they were trudging painfully through the dark. He didn’t want to use the weapon’s properties, whatever the reason, preferring to just endure the pain and possibly _die_ than suggest it. Artemis knew the dagger better than he did. He’d have to trust the assassin’s judgment on this.

But that left him, yet again, with no options.

Again, Drizzt sank to the human’s side. He could do what Artemis told him, leave him there and get the-

No, that wasn’t an option. Either Artemis left with him, or he didn’t leave at all. He’d just have to rest for a while, then carry the man the rest of the way or, at least, until he saw sunlight and could call Andahar. It was what he told Artemis and it was what he had to believe.

But that tiny, brutally honest part of himself knew better. That there was a chance the human wouldn’t wake back up. That his fever would claim him and he’d just slip like sand through Drizzt’s fingers. If that happened, the least the drow could do was stay with him through it. Who was to say the man wouldn’t die while he was gone to fetch the others anyway? This way, at the very least, he didn’t have die alone.

The burn in his eyes finally boiled over, warm tears worked their way out no matter how hard Drizzt tried to squeeze his eyes shut. He tried with everything he had to keep the emotion in check, but he was too worn down to put up much of a fight.

_This is your fault._

That voice. That damned voice.

_If you had just let him leave, this wouldn’t have happened._

Drizzt found himself reminded of Vierna whispering in his ear, taunting him before Briza realized punishment was in order for him. She only did it when Briza was the one to deal it out, never when it was her responsibility, probably because Briza was scarier or because she hit him harder.

_But no. You made him stay. And now you’ll have to watch him die like all the others._

It was like someone whispering right in his ear. Warm puffs of breath, the distinct smell of smoke, but strangely no pain in his head like before. Like it was just leaning over him, not struggling to get out anymore.

_We will take everything from you. Give in now and some of them might be spared._

Grinding his teeth and biting back a growl, Drizzt reached for his weapon and in a single, fluid movement he drew the blade and swung widely. Twinkle’s blue glow flashed like the sun through thrown curtains; it blinded him and, hopefully, anyone around him. He felt resistance, like fabric, against his blade, but heard no cries of pain, no dripping of blood. He smelled only smoke.

When his vision returned, he saw nothing where the voice had been. He stared into the darkness, waiting for the shapes to move, to approach, to seemingly meld out of nothing into a single human shape like they had when the wraith appeared in the forest.

Nothing of the sort happened.

Drizzt released the breath he was holding, slumping a little where he sat and his hand still resting on the assassin’s chest. He took some comfort in the persistent rise and fall. His eyes drifted closed.

The sound of bounding feet caught his attention; a barely-there sound he might have missed if he didn’t pause to listen. It was coming full speed right for him.

The ranger swung his blade around pointing it at the creature, blue glow illuminating the narrow tunnel.

The panther skidded to a stop at the sight of the sword leveled at her, eyes wide and confused. When she recovered, she stood a short distance away anxiously moving her tail and ears. She was antsy, bristled along the edges. She must have seen something.

“Guen?” Drizzt breathed, nervous about what the great cat could have encountered, “What is it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* yes I'm stopping here. The last two chapters will go up tomorrow night.


	29. Aura of Comfort

She bounded back as quickly as she could, knowing the necessity of quick feet and the limited time they had. Guenhwyvar didn’t quite understand what exactly was going on or why things had suddenly changed around her, but urgency was something she always understood.

Guen bristled when the ranger leveled his sword at her. Its blue glow made her see spots. What was the elf doing? She was trying to help.

The great cat calmed a bit when Drizzt lowered his weapon, apologetic. She studied him and his fallen companion closely, paced a bit, and then stopped again. She wouldn’t be able to just get them to follow her. The elf would have to think of something else.

“Guen,” Drizzt said firmly. He was worried. His hands were shaking, but his voice wasn’t.

The unicorn? But how could she tell him? The panther growled low at him and turned in a circle. That only seemed to confuse the poor ranger more.

Not knowing what else to do, she approached the wounded man at her friend’s side and nudged him. The puff of air to the cheek that had worked last time didn’t seem to be enough to rouse him. She bit at a loose fold of fabric at the human’s shoulder and tugged a couple of times.

And then Drizzt understood. Though, Guenhwyvar wasn’t exactly keen on being in the line of fire for a loud burst from the whistle that left both her and her ranger with ringing ears.

-0-0-0-0-0-

“Matron Mother!”

Quenthel turned to the approaching soldiers, her look of hope degrading into a furious snarl when she noticed the Chosen was not with them in irons. “Where is he? _Where is he?”_ She was screaming at them, trying desperately to stay enraged and not hysterical.

“We couldn’t find him. We think he’s already made it to the surface.” Andrzel reported, barely fazed by the Matron’s outrage. He turned and waved at the soldiers and they passed something up to him. “We found this in one of the higher tunnels.”

He handed the thing over to Quenthel and she saw that is was the sword she’d given the Chosen. There was nick in the black blade and it was coated in blood, dried and flaking onto the floor as she examined it. “What-“

Before she could even finish the question, Andrzel was explaining, “It was a bloodbath we found it in, but with no corpses. Just blood splattered everywhere among other substances: hair, ink, pieces of fabric among other things. We also found a severed hand, neither drow nor human.”

“And you found _no sign_ of the Chosen?” she asked, gripping the blade as if she were going to swing it at her weapons’ master.

“There was a blood trail,” he admitted, “thought it might have been from the human that stole him. We sent a pair to follow it to make sure.”

Quenthel arched an eyebrow when he didn’t finish.

“We,” the soldiers behind him shifted nervously, “we found their bodies after a few hours. Their heads were torn open, the flesh torn from bone, huge pieces of their armor were just missing. We think they might have been eaten. There were sightings of githyanki in the tunnels.”

The matron paced in a small circle, sword still in her hands. “And you decided to _not_ come back with the Chosen, why?”

“The amount of time we spent looking, the discarded sword, the monsters in the tunnels,” Andrzel listed, “it was more practical to come back and think up a strategy to get him on the surface. If he hasn’t made it there by now, he will very soon. Just following him up there and looking for him on his turf with no plan is not the way to go about this. He’s smart, he’s dangerous, and he’s got Lolth on his side. This is going to take time, Matron, you know this.”

Her expression calm, Quenthel approached him. “I’m going to assume you have some kind of idea.”

“We’ll need Tiago. We’ll have to send him back to the surface and make him do the actual looking. He’s been there before, hunting the Chosen, and knows some of his haunts and places to check. Jarlaxle will most likely be able to provide us with better information.” Andrzel took a deep breath, “He might have escaped the city, but he will not escape our hunt.”

With a gruff shout she sent two of the soldiers to fetch the named men.

They returned much later than they had any business being, both empty handed. “Tiago must still be on the manhunt,” the first said entering with a shrug. But then the second arrived saying that Jarlaxle had been replaced with a guard meant to be in Tiago’s search party.

“He betrayed us,” Andrzel was trying very hard not to smile, knowing the Matron’s wrath was swift incoming.

Quenthel stabbed the second messenger in the throat with the bloody sword before he had the time to realize what she was doing, and screamed at the soldiers to clear out.

She needed a word with her weapons’ master.

-0-0-0-0-0-

They collected again, everyone agitated and worried. Effron had a hard time tuning in to the conversation; he’d spent every moment of his downtime since their arrival awake and trying to come up with more efficient methods to measure the passage of time or otherwise combat the more obvious effects of the Sundering. So far, nothing he did worked quite right and it frustrated him. Outside of his thoughts he heard the dwarves arguing in low tones, Afafrenfere trying to cut in but not doing a very good job of it.

A sharp, loud noise cut the air silencing all voices and shaking the warlock violently into the moment. It was shrill, almost a shriek, like the scream of a wounded child but louder, echoing off the cliffs and through the forest all around them.

All four of them rushed to the cliff scanning the edge for something, anything. But all was still.

“What in the hells was that?” Ambergris was the first to break the silence.

“Maybe Dahlia got attacked by a bear,” Afafrenfere suggested.

Everyone kept proposing ideas, most of them involving Dahlia getting attacked by things. “Shush,” Effron hissed, waving his hand to get everyone’s attention. There was another sound, a quiet one, distant and rumbling, “Listen.”

It sounded like footfalls. Too fast to be human, staggered and laced with strange overtone. Chiming?

Bells?

“Andahar!” Afafrenfere shouted pointing down to the tree-line where the white splotch that was the unicorn was quickly picking its way up the cliff face like some sort of strangely proportioned mountain goat.

Effron’s knees nearly buckled. That meant Drizzt was nearby. But-

The unicorn passed right beneath them and into the dark tunnels. Effron heard shouting around him before he could really register what was happening. Ambergris had taken the hellboar back to the campsite, Afafrenfere made it down to the ledge surprisingly quickly despite the deficit to his eyesight in the dark. Athrogate had his weapons drawn and Effron felt his own hand reaching for the wand on his belt.

_Someone was injured and they might be pursued._ It started falling into place. If Drizzt was going to summon his mount why not wait until he was out in the open or down by the forest?

_Someone was injured_. The idea kept going over and over in his head. Ambergris had no clerical magic, their supply of medicine was varied, but limited. This kind of injury left at least one of them immobile, and Effron worried they might not have the necessary things to get them back in working order.

Then, his eyes drifted to the spot on the landscape where Dahlia had set up her camp. What if this was what she was waiting for? She knew one was injured and was waiting for this signal to ambush.

Too many questions.

The sound of thundering hooves brought everyone’s attention to the cave. Afafrenfere took a deep breath, ready to shout when Drizzt nearly plowed past him. “Drizzt, this way!”

The ranger stopped, unicorn rearing dangerously close to the ledge. He seemed whole and relatively okay, if shaken. The assassin, however, wasn’t so well off; thrown over the animal like sack of grain, Drizzt struggling to hold him in place with the speed at which he was moving. He wasn’t awake, and looked horribly pale as far as Effron could tell.

Afafrenfere pointed up  the way he’d come, unable to lead the way with his limited eyesight in the darkness, but followed closely when Drizzt’s unicorn made its way up there. “Go to the light,” he shouted, “Amber’s waiting for you.”

Effron turned to watch them go. The monk kept pace with the steed, sure-footed and unfaltering.

“Oi,” Athrogate snapped, getting his attention. “ye hear anything?”

The warlock started, still a little out of focus. He listened, and all he heard was the shouted voices of their friends. “Nothing. Let’s go back.”

They started backing away, still ready to be ambushed.

“Ye go first,” Athrogate said, once they were several paces away and out of sight. “I’ll keep watch then catch up with ye. I dun think anything’s comin’”

Effron didn’t need to be told twice. He turned on his heel and ran back to join the group as quickly as he could without losing his footing. Everyone was back, in one piece, for the first time since the disaster at Gauntlgrym. It was like a breath of fresh air, not having to worry about unknowns anymore.

When he caught up with the group, Drizzt was sliding off the saddle of his unicorn. He stumbled, legs threatening to buckle and Effron didn’t think twice about reaching out to steady him.

He didn’t, however, expect Drizzt to turn and collapse against him. The drow was heavy enough to pull Effron to his knees beside him. He sat there as the ranger gripped the loose fabric of his robe and was just very still. Effron froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arm around the elf and rested his cheek against the top of his head. It seemed to soothe him a little.

Drizzt whimpered, breath shaking. Whatever had gone on in the Underdark seemed to have really gotten to him.

“It’s over,” Effron said softly, “We’ve got you now.”

After several moments, the drow calmed down and relaxed. He didn’t move though.

Athrogate rejoined them with a confused noise. “He hurt too?”

“I don’t think so.” Effron tried to shrug, but the act was difficult.

“I’m okay,” Drizzt panted, pulling back, “I’m okay. But I do have a very, very serious question to ask.” He took a deep, steadying breath, looked Effron dead in the face and asked, “ _What in the hells happened to the sun?”_

Athrogate laughed and Effron gave him a weak smile. “Okay,” the warlock stood and helped the ranger to his feet, “Let’s get settled in and we’ll tell you everything we know.”

They led Drizzt into the illuminated cavern.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Her camp was small, but functional. Far enough away from Do’Urden’s people that they wouldn’t be able to ambush her, but close enough that she could see the ranger’s rather dramatic return. She watched as his friends led him to their own camp, and she noticed that she only saw one person sitting on the unicorn. Or, at least, one person sitting up straight.

Maybe Artemis did die in the tunnels. She worried he might with a wound that severe and no hope of immediate treatment. Chewing her lip she watched the now empty ledge as if it would somehow provide her with answers. Hours could have passed and she wouldn’t have noticed them.

The short hairs on the back of her neck bristled and a chill passed over her ears. Reaching for her staff, Dahlia was ready to swing when a hand took hold of her braid and tugged it hard enough to tilt her head. A glimmering glassteel saber rested on her exposed shoulder, blade braced against her neck. It would have been an awkward position for her attacker to be in, and even the slightest movement on her part would leave her bleeding to death.

“You knew they were in the Aerie,” Tiago’s voice whispered in her ear, “and you sent me after Jarlaxle so you could have them to yourself.”

“What of it?” Dahlia replied, not bothering to try and get a look at the drow.

“What happened to them?”

She decided honesty would be her best route here, “They made it to the surface. Do’Urden’s alive but Entreri might not be.” A short laugh, “Aren’t you supposed to be in Menzoberranzan by now licking the boots of your matron to a nice polished shine?”

Tiago released her, sword ghosting across her neck as he pushed her away.

“How long do you plan on staying here?” he asked once she turned to face him.

Dahlia tilted her head curiously, “Why do you care? I thought you were done with me. Unless you need me to hunt Do’Urden with you again, in which case, no sale. I’m washing my hands of all this silly bother. It’s taken up too much of my time and effort.”

“No,” Tiago shook his head, “I don’t want to hunt Do’Urden anymore.”

“Then what _do_ you want?”

The drow shifted his weight, sheathed his weapon, and took on a less hostile stance, “I want to fortify. My matron is not going to be happy about things I’ve done in recent days and she’s bound to come after me. I need to be ready when she does.”

“Why not go to someone else?” A smile brightened her face. She had been right in her assumptions about Tiago and his life before they’d ever journeyed down into the dark, and she bound and determined to force him to admit it at some point. “I thought you were fed up with me. Only allied yourself with me because you had no other options, and that alone was beneath you.”

“It i _s_ beneath me,” Tiago smiled back. “However, your help has, for the most part, worked for my benefit.”

“Oh come off it,” she threw her head back and laughed as if he’d said the funniest thing in the world, “every plan we’ve tried to pull off together has gone terribly.”

The Baenre shook his head, “Because we were fighting over the endgame. Who got to keep the prize if we won.” He took a step closer, hands out and friendly “Imagine what we could accomplished if we didn’t. Your assets, my strategy. We’d be unstoppable.”

It wasn’t that bad of a proposal. Tiago was knowledgeable and focused when he wanted to be, he was good with words and persuasive when he needed to be, and having him around to tease and torment would entertain her to no end. Dahlia was seriously beginning to consider it. But she had to ask, “Why? What’s in it for you?”

“Security,” he answered quickly. “You have a guild now that could offer me cover if not protection when the assassins start to trickle up. I do have another option in Jarlaxle, but given the precarious state of things I would prefer something farther away from the core.”

Dahlia folded her arm across her chest. That wasn’t everything and she knew it, but she’d dealt with people like Tiago back in Thay. Getting him to admit the truth was like trying to pull a castle with a plow horse. “Okay, but I have some conditions.”

“Name them.”

“You’re under me. You take orders and only question them when I ask for your opinion.” She counted the items on her fingers, “You don’t get to lord what little power I give you over the others. And anything else I come up with once this ship finally sets sail. If not, I can be sure to send a very detailed, very anonymous missive to the priestesses down in Gauntlgrym about you. Fair?”

Tiago scoffed with a roll of his eyes. He wasn’t going to abide by any of that and both of them knew it. “Fair enough.”

“Good,” this was bound to be interesting. Dahlia smiled at him. “I already have a task for you.”

Tiago arched an eyebrow.

“Procure a building in Neverwinter. Something large enough to accommodate my lieutenants so we can set up shop there. The city will be rebuilding and ripe for mercenary work while they wait for lords to get off their asses and start protecting them.”

“With what money?” He asked reaching out to stop her hand as she lifted her cloak. “I don’t have enough to pay for a building.”

She thought about it for a moment, “That sounds an awful lot like something that _isn’t_ my problem.” She pulled her hand from his grip and started away, “You want to throw in with me, you do this thing. If not, I’ll get it myself when we arrive. It’s more a test of your loyalty and busy work if we’re being honest.”

“We’re being honest now?”

“Partly.” She laughed, called on the cloak’s magic, and flew away.

Tiago watched her go. He’d be able to break down her camp and get a few silver for the lot in a town, but it probably wouldn’t be enough. He’d have to get creative if he wanted to get a ripe spot in her guild with this task as his merit.

This ‘rite of passage’ business was starting to get very, _very_ old.

-0-0-0-0-0-

It took Effron and Athrogate quite some time to get Drizzt out of his armor, settled in, and explain to him just what had happened in his absence. They told him about the eclipse, the people beginning to gather in Neverwinter, their victories at Gauntlgrym, and the absence of clerical magic. Drizzt made a strange face and looked at the floor for a long time after Effron told him about the illithid and elf girl that aided them, but when asked he just shook his head and told them to continue. Ambergris and Afafrenfere tended as best they could to Artemis; dwarven curses filled the air whenever there was a break in conversation.

The warlock tried to ask Drizzt what happened in Menzoberranzan, but the ranger only said that he didn’t know. “I woke up and we were already out.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Effron sounded more curious than concerned.

Drizzt wracked his memory, “Gauntlgrym. I remember Jarlaxle giving us the amulet thing and then things start to get fuzzy.”

“And it’s all just blank?” the warlock recoiled from his own question. He hadn’t meant to ask it, or at least not in the incredibly interested way he did.

“No,” the ranger answered, “I went somewhere else while, I guess, my physical body was still active here. I was in the Demonweb Pit, I think. That burning forest from my nightmares.” His voice took on a slight drone, like he was reading the details out of a book instead of remembering them, “I saw this,” he struggled for words, “thing. It was like a wraith but solid. _Fast._ It looked like me, but it had four arms and swords and it tried to kill me. I think it captured Regis.”

The dwarf just looked confused, but Effron perked up at the name, “The halfing from your old group? He was there?”

Drizzt nodded, “He tried to get me out. We were separated. I’m not sure what happened to him.”

Effron knew better than to ask any more questions about it for now.

They grew steadily quieter, Drizzt exhausted from the long journey and still out of sorts, the others frazzled and paranoid about potential pursuers. Athrogate rose after too long in silence and went to keep watch. Effron felt himself dozing a little. Too much time without sleep and now nothing to worry over.

He snapped back to wakefulness when he heard Afafrenfere’s voice. At some point the monk had come over and sat down with them.

“He’s going to be okay,” he said as he sat down and Drizzt nearly fell over with relief. “The fever’s stubborn, but Ambergris thinks she’ll be able to break it with time. He needs rest, lots of it, but we should be able to move him relatively soon.” Afafrenfere trailed off, eyes drifting to the floor.

“There’s something else?” Drizzt prompted.

“Amber,” the monk shifted in his seat, “she wants to keep a close eye on him for a while. And she says that if he doesn’t improve as quickly as he should, she’ll have to,” he hesitated, tapping his foot and avoiding Drizzt’s gaze for some time. He looked to Effron for support and the warlock wasn’t sure what to do or say to help him get the words out. Eventually he spat it out, “She’ll have to take the leg.”

Drizzt rocked back, eyes wide with alarm, “What?”

“She’d rather do it now, to be honest,” Afafrenfere tried to laugh but realized that was probably the wrong thing to do here, “but she’s willing to give him a chance to heal and see how things go, but if it poses a threat to his life she’ll do it. She isn’t going to let him die on us.” Snapping his fingers, suddenly recalling something, he turned to Effron, “She wants to talk to you about it, actually. You used to work with flesh and limbs. She’d like your input.”

Effron made a face, “I worked with _dead_ flesh and limbs.”

“Input is input, she doesn’t have to _take_ the advice,” Afafrenfere shrugged.

Drizzt buried his face in his hands. Afafrenfere tried to comfort him.

“We don’t-“ he started and stopped a few times. “We don’t have to cross this bridge now. A lot has happened and right now, the both of you just need rest. We’ll all talk about this later, when he wakes. Yeah?”

That seemed to soothe the ranger and pull him back into himself.

“Amber’s done prodding at him for now, if you want to, you know, sit with him for a while.”

Drizzt rose almost immediately. Effron heard Ambergris’s voice, she was telling the ranger the details of the plan she had to treat the wound and the fever in case Artemis woke up and asked what was happening. Afafrenfere looked to Effron nervously.

“What the hell happened down there?” he whispered, getting up to sit beside the warlock.

“Drizzt didn’t say,” Effron replied with a shrug, “He was more concerned with what happened with us and the things he did say were odd, to say the least. I think,” he chewed the inside of his lip, thoughtful, “he needs some time to stabilize. It sounds and looks like so much has happened to them. Some quiet might do them more good than a bunch of questions.”

“Yeah. Let’s just hope no one decides to cause any problems in the meantime.”

Effron nodded, knowing exactly what the monk meant. He about to say something until Ambergris appeared in his line of sight and gestured for him to come with her as she went outside. The warlock knew better than to make her wait.


	30. Meeting of the Gods

She closed her eyes, hairs on the back of her neck standing on end beneath the fur of her mantle. She wasn’t alone and hadn’t been for some time, but only now had her guest chosen to approach.

“It’s a shame what happened to your little ranger boy,” a voice laughed, taunting and lyrical at her back, “Perhaps you will be more careful in choosing who gets your favor in the future.”

She was being baited. Lolth had something planned and was goading her into making the first move. Mielikki didn’t budge. “You should consider it a privilege to have a place on the surface where your spiders might roam unhindered. I hear in the cities they take to killing them on sight, claiming they spread poison and disease.”

The air itself seemed to vibrate when Lolth bristled behind her. When the Spider Queen spoke however, her voice was steady, “The cities are still better. More places to hide.”

“Your kind do such a great job of _hiding_.” Why was she here? She had no reason to be anywhere near Mielikki’s side of things during the proceedings. A nervous flutter shook her chest as she tried to figure it out. Why would Lolth approach her now? There was nothing she’d be able to do against her this far from their native realms. Unless-

It was too soon, things weren’t ready yet. The plan was for Lolth to wait until after the meetings had begun to make her move, not a scant few hours before they even started. In the distance, Mielikki could have sworn she heard the barking of wild dogs. _Her_ dogs. A clamor of hooves

“Hiding, my dear,” the words were whispered directly into her ear, low and sultry, flirtatious, “makes it easier to know my enemy. So, I might be able to strike before she is prepared.”

She smiled softly to herself. This wasn’t ideal, but it was not as though she had no options. There was a plan in place, a failsafe, and that was all she needed. Especially now when all she could do was buy time. With a deep breath and a steeled gaze, Mielikki turned to face her visitor, “Oh, sister.” She replied, mimicking Lolth’s sickly sweet tones and smirking when her dark face turned angry at the endearment, “I’ve been ready for ages.”

Lolth’s scowl didn’t change.

Mielikki had expected the knife to sink into her chest. For Lolth to stab her, but no, instead the blade sank into her back white hot and tearing at her heart. An ally. That was an interesting turn. It was out of her hands now though, she wouldn’t let herself be shaken now.

She wouldn’t let Lolth win that battle and laugh at her fear.

Craning her neck she turned to get a look at her assassin. A man, corpse-like and skull faced, red shimmer in his eyes stared back at her.

Of course, she would. Mielikki had heard whispers of cults in the Underdark, of the god of assassins’ potential return. That Lolth managed to sink her talons into him so quickly and pull him to her side was just a testament to the Spider Queen’s thirst for the surface realms.

The knife was pulled from her back and she was allowed to fall to the ground at their feet. She tried to breath around the pressure and fire in her chest but it was proving fruitless. Her vision grew dark and the sound of her barking hounds grew louder. Voices, mostly Lolth’s shouted above her in sharp, angry tones.

A strong hand gripped her hair and wrenched her head back. The Spider Queen all beady eyes and sharp teeth snarled at her, “Where is the rest of it?”

Mielikki laughed, making sure to turn her head so blood would splatter on the other’s face with the effort, “What are you talking about?”

“The rest of your realm, sapling. Where is it?!” She was snarling. Lolth had expected for her power to be ripe for the taking. What shame it must have been to find that the goddess of nature was little more than mortal, her power stashed elsewhere.

Mielikki offered her a disarming smile. “You won’t find it in time.”

“The hell I won’t.”

Again, Mielikki only laughed, “Did you think I didn’t know this was coming? That I wouldn’t defer my power so you couldn’t take it, or ensure the survival of my influence? Do you think yourself so very unpredictable? There was a reason they banished you, Lolth. They could predict what you would do, so they stripped you of your power.” Her laugh became a cough, “You won’t ever get it back. You cannot control everything. Even if you did find the rest of my realm and the font of my power, you’ll never take it over. You’re too careless. Too petty. Too _undeserving_.”

In a fit of rage, Lolth lost herself, and threw the other goddess face first to the ground. She rose and stomped upon her back until her previous wound was indiscernible in the blood that pooled there.

“Find it,” she roared, turning to the assassin as she did so, “Take whatever creatures you think you need. Take _the balor_ if you must. Just _find it and burn it to the ground._ ” She turned intending to storm off. Then, suddenly, she rounded on Bhaal a second time, “And don’t think of disappointing me, assassin. If you wish to keep that form of yours indefinitely.”

And with that, she was gone.

Bhaal lingered a short while. Whatever Mielikki had done to channel her power and split her realm must have happened before Lolth had given him form. Someone would have to know, she was bound to have allies. But that was the problem with the goodly folk, so unwilling to turn on their friends.

Perhaps there was a mortal that knew.

Perhaps it was time to pay some of his own allies a visit.

-0-0-0-0-0-

He woke gasping, his whole world in sharp, though colorless, focus. Pale, gauzy forms danced across his vision as the last vestiges of the spell faded from him. He was alive.

He was _alive._

Draygo struggled to breathe, not for any physical restrictions, but rather for fear of a deluge of pure agony that might descend upon him in moments. He’d managed to seal up what he could, but the sharp white of bone in the bright lights of his laboratory was stark on the edges of his vision. He expected to lurch, howling in agony until the rest of his body gave out around the heart, which would continue to beat even if the rest of him tried to die around it.

But no pain came. In its place was strange numbness, a chill, the way one feels when the phantom of a severed hand rests upon one’s knee. For several moments, Draygo feared he was not in control of his body anymore. That _all_ he was, was alive.

Taking a deep breath, Draygo tested his movement; wiggling toes and fingers, rolling ankles and wrists, bending knees and elbows. He felt pulls and tightness around the wounds in torso as his movements became more taxing, but no pain.

The warlock relaxed back against the table, letting the new organ pump as much magic-laced fluid through him as it could before attempting any major movements. The worst of it was over now. He would have to wait a while before he was fully mobile, so he took the time to plot out his next moves. Something would have to be done about his still mostly –open chest and the bones barely held in place with wire to keep his organs secure. He’d new lines of defense.

His eyes drifted to the large, black casket at the front of the room. Another shadow caught his attention.

_Clap, clap, clap._

The soft sound of boney hands coming together in a light, slow applause. Each pronounced clap was interrupted by the swish of fabric and soft, clicking footfalls. “That,” Szass Tam’s otherworldly voice echoed off the stone walls as he spoke, “was most impressive, Lord Quick. I was not expecting you to survive that.” He sounded more amused than impressed. The lich ran his hand over the black casket as he passed, pausing to trace runes and admire craftsmanship. “Makes me wonder just what you keep in _here_.”

Draygo glared at him, but said nothing as Szass Tam continued his approach.

“I’m sure I’ll find out soon,” he stood beside the prone warlock, looking down at him like a cleric disappointed at his inability to heal a wounded soldier. He walked his boney fingers along the exposed bones of Draygo’s ribs.

“What to do you want, Thayan?” Quick croaked. “Why are you here?”

Szass Tam smiled down at him, “I’m here to make you an offer. Give you back what you’ve lost in exchange for your services.”

“My ‘services’?” Draygo laughed, aiming blackened spit at the lich’s face. Szass Tam leaned out of the line of fire, but his scowl betrayed disapproval. “Why would I possibly give you my services? What do you have that I want?”

“Power,” Szass Tam said quickly, “Influence and underlings. And, perhaps, an opportunity at revenge?

“I’ll be blunt with you, Lord Quick” he continued, “I want Neverwinter. I’ve wanted it for decades. I need an army to claim it and that army needs generals to act on my behalf while I see to things in Thay. I want you to act as one of those generals.” He held out his hands as if he were showing a table of wares, “I will give you whatever materials or assistance you require, you will be allowed to pursue,” his eyes drifted around the room, “personal endeavors, so long as when I tell you to act you do so.”

 Draygo considered the offer, with his castle empty he had little in the way of options or income. “That still sounds like it benefits you more than it would benefit me.”

Szass Tam paused a moment, “Once the city is taken and my banner flies from its battlements, you will be suitably paid in a handsome some of money and first pick from the slave pool when it arrives there. Sweeten the pot enough for you?”

“Not quite,” the warlock coughed, “Why me? I thought you had an army made of necromancers seeking your favor. Why are you interested in-“

Szass Tam was smiling. It was a horrible sight. He reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a large black opal shot through with purple veins. Draygo could feel the magic from where he sat.

“What is-“

“I came to collect, only to find you incapacitated.” Szass Tam explained, “Now, I will ask you again: you can serve me of your own free will as my employee or I can kill you and make you my thrall similar to what Valindra is. These are your options.”

The Shifter. Her hasty retreat. She knew Szass Tam was in the castle, what he’d done and left before Draygo could ever hold it against her. Sneaky bitch probably helped the bastard trap his soul the stone. She sold him out to save herself.

“Fine,” Draygo said, “I’ll work for you. But I have preparations that need to be made.”

“I shall see to it that you have what you need and those preparations are made swiftly.” Szass Tam replaced the opal in the sleeve of his robe, “You will give a list of the materials to the assistant I provide you and you will report to Neverwinter immediately after. Your work will be conducted there.”

The warlock nodded silently.

The lich patted his shoulder, “Get well soon, Draygo. I look forward to doing _real_ business with someone as clever as you.” And with that, Szass Tam glided away.

Draygo Quick stared at the ceiling, expression passive, until he no longer heard footfalls.

-0-0-0-0-0-

Sniffing noses and soft fur brushed her face. Breathing was a struggle, but she managed to open her eyes. A collection of wild dogs and wolves had gathered around her, some sniffing her face, some the wounds on her back, others sat back and howled forlorn into the dimming space.

Something pressed against her side, strong and insistent, rolling her onto her back. She gasped, but breath still refused to stay with her. The unicorn huffed knowingly, massive nose nuzzling her neck in an attempt at comfort.

Mielikki reached shaking hands for her mantle and attempted to remove the matted, bloody fur from her person. Seeing her struggle, the dogs moved to help her gently biting and tugging at the garment until two of them held it between their teeth looking at her with wide, expectant eyes. She took it from them, waited for her steed to lie beside her, and draped it about the creature’s neck.

“Go,” she wheezed, trying to sound strong around the pain, “be quick. Let them know what has happened. That Lolth is coming for them.” She twisted, looking to the rest of the group, “Make sure he is not followed, understand? No matter what.”

The dogs barked and bit at the air.

The unicorn rose, looking every bit a warhorse. His shimmering white flank already stained with blood dripping down and smearing as it moved. He shook his massive head so that the fur might lay evenly about it. A slight hesitation and Mielikki had to repeat her order to him. He didn’t want her to die here, but had no other choice. “We do not have time for good-byes,” she said, “You must hurry.”

Soon, all the animals had left her side and she was left alone in silence and deepening darkness.

How long would it take Lolth to find it? To form an army to try and take it? Did she already have one?

Would the heroes she picked be enough to stave off the Spider Queen’s interests on the surface, or was her faith misplaced? The man she had wanted as Chosen had picked them for companions, and they hadn’t been wasting the power she had offered them over the decades. But they were so few, but a handful of souls against an army of demons with nothing to lose and too much to gain from victory.

Mielikki never would have predicted that when she drew her last breath it would be drawn in doubt. And she would struggle to release it in hope. But hope was all she had left to offer. Everything else had been given to that ragtag group of heroes. This was their fight now.


End file.
